The year 842. While he was walking down by the riverbank, Retyc
the high priest saw this omen. A flock of sparrows was pecking in
the grass. Suddenly a raven flew by. All the sparrows flew up and
followed the raven, just as if he were another sparrow and the
leader of their flock. Someday, His Holiness said, a man from
another people will come to lead Deverry men to war . . .
—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn
Late on a warm autumn day the silver daggers made their camp on
the grassy banks of the Trebycaver. It was an organized chaos:
ninety men tending a hundred and fifty horses, the fifteen women
who followed the camp pitching tents and getting supplies out of
the pair of wagons, the handful of bastard children running around
and shouting, free at last after a long day behind one saddle or
another. While the others worked, Maddyn and Caradoc strolled
through, shouting an order here, a jest there. By a pile of saddles
a weary Clwna was nursing her fussy new daughter, Pomyan. Clwna
looked so pale and faint that Maddyn hunkered down beside her.
“How do you fare, lass? You shouldn’t have ridden so
soon after having the babe.”
“Oh, I’m as well as I need to be. It was better than
never catching up to you again.”
“We could have waited a few days.”
“Huh. I’m sure the captain would have waited for the
likes of me.”
When she moved the baby to her other breast, the tiny lass
raised her head and looked cloudy-eyed at Maddyn. He smiled at her and wondered who her father was, a perennial question about
every child bom to the camp followers, although he was the only man
who seemed to care one way or the other. When Caradoc called him to
come walk on, he mentioned to the captain that he thought Clwna
looked ill.
“Well, she’ll have a couple of days to rest
now,” Caradoc said. “I think we’ll leave this
ragtag piss-poor excuse for a troop here while you and I ride to
see this so-called King Casyl.”
“Very well. I’ll admit we’re not much to look
at these days.”
“Never were, and all these wretched women and barracks
brats don’t help us give ourselves fine military
airs.”
“You could have ordered us to leave them behind when we
left Eldidd.”
“Horseshit. Believe it or not, there’s a bit of
honor left in your old captain’s heart, lad. They’re a
bunch of sluts, but it was my men who swelled their bellies,
wasn’t it? Besides, there was enough grumbling about leaving
Eldidd as it was. Didn’t want open mutiny.” Caradoc
sighed in profound melancholy. “We got soft there.
That’s the trouble with staying in one place too long.
Should’ve left Eldidd long ago.”
“I still don’t see why we left it now.”
Caradoc shot him a sour glance and led the way out of the camp
to the riverbank. In the slanting sun, the water ran rippled gold
through banks soft with wild grass.
“Don’t repeat this to anyone, or I’ll smash
your face for you,” Caradoc said. “But I moved us out
because of this dream I had.”
Maddyn stared, frankly speechless.
“In the dream someone was telling me that it was time.
Don’t ask me why or time for what, but I heard this voice,
like, and it sounded like a king’s voice, all arrogant and
commanding, telling me that it was time to leave and ride north. If
we starve in Pyrdon, then I’ll know the dream came from the
demons, but by the gods, I’ve never had a dream like that
before. Tried to ignore it for a blasted eightnight. Kept coming
back. Call me daft if you want.”
“Naught of the sort. But I’ve got to say that
I’m surprised to the bottom of my heart.”
“Not half as surprised as I was. I’m getting old.
Daft. Soon I’ll be drooling in a chair by a tavern
fire.” Caradoc sighed again and shook his head in mock
sadness. “But we’re about ten miles from this King
Casyl’s dun. Tomorrow we’ll ride up there and see just
how daft I was. Let’s get back to camp now. I’ll be
leaving Owaen in charge, and I want to give him his
orders.”
On the morrow, Maddyn and Caradoc left the camp early and
followed the river up to the town of Drwloc. After the splendors of
Abernaudd, the town wasn’t much as royal cities went, about
two thousand houses crammed inside a timber-laced stone wall.
As they led their horses along streets paved with half-buried logs
for want of cobbles, Maddyn began to wonder if Caradoc was indeed
going daft. If this was the jewel of the kingdom, it seemed that
the king wouldn’t be able to afford the silver daggers. They
found a tavern over by the north gate, got themselves ale, then
asked casual questions about the king and his holdings. When the
tavernman held forth upon his liege’s honor, bravery, and
farseeing mind without ever mentioning luxuries or reserves of
cash, Caradoc grew positively gloomy.
“Tell me somewhat,” the captain said at last.
“Does His Highness keep a large standing army?”
“As large a one as he can feed. You never know what those
Eldidd dogs are going to do.”
This news made him a good bit more cheerful. They took their ale
outside to sit on a small wooden bench in front of the tavern. In
the warm hazy day, the townsfolk hurried past on assorted errands,
an old peasant leading a mule laden with cabbages, a young merchant
in much mended checked brigga, a pretty lass who ignored them both
in the most pointed fashion.
“We should have ridden north earlier,” Caradoc said.
“His Highness isn’t going to want to feed extra men all
winter when the summer’s fighting is done. Ah, curse that
dream! May the demon who sent it to me drown in a tub of horse
piss.”
“Well, there’s no harm in riding out to
ask.”
With a gloomy nod, Caradoc sipped his ale. Down the twisting
street, a silver horn rang out; a squad of horsemen appeared,
walking their mounts at a stately pace. At their head were two
riders with rearing stallions blazoned on their shirts, and a guard
of four more rode behind. In the middle, on a splendid bay gelding,
rode a handsome blond lad of about fourteen. His white, red, and
gold plaid cloak was thrown back and pinned at one shoulder with an
enormous ring brooch of gold set with rubies. Beside him on a
matched bay was an old man with a thick shock of white hair and
Piercing blue eyes. Maddyn stared briefly, then jumped up with a
shout.
“Nevyn! By all the gods!”
Grinning broadly, the old man turned his horse out of line and
waved, paused to say something to the lad, then rode over, dismounting as Maddyn ran up to greet him. Maddyn clasped his
outretched hand and shook it hard.
“By the hells, it gladdens my
heart to see you, sir.”
“And mine to see you,” Nevyn said with a somewhat
sly smile “See, I told you that our paths would cross
again.”
“And right you were. What are you doing in
Pyrdon?”
“Tutoring the marked prince. Are the rest of
the silver daggers with you?”
“Not far, just camped
down the river. Wait—how do you know about them?”
“How do you think? Has your captain had any strange dreams
lately?”
Maddyn turned cold with an awe that ran down his back like
melting snow. Tankard in hand, a puzzled Caradoc strolled over to
join them as the young prince dismounted and led his horse over to
join his tutor. When Maddyn and Caradoc knelt to him, the prince
gave them a courteous nod of acknowledgment, but the gesture was
splendidly firm for one so young. Maddyn was instantly struck by
how noble the young prince was, the gallant way he stood, the proud
set to his head, the easy way his hand rested on his sword hilt, as
if he’d seen many a battle beyond his years. A prince indeed,
he thought, born to be king. At the thought, his cold awe grew
stronger, and he wondered just why Nevyn the sorcerer was here in
this obscure kingdom.
“Your Highness,” the old man said,
“Allow me to present Maddyn the silver dagger, and the
captain of the troop, Caradoc of Cerrmor. Men, you kneel before
Maryn, marked prince of Pyrdon.”
At the casual mention of his name by one he didn’t know,
Caradoc glared at Nevyn, who ignored him with a bland smile.
“Silver daggers, are you?” Maryn said with,
an engaging, boyish smile. “Pyrdon may be at the ends of the
earth, but I’ve heard of your troop. How many of you are
there?”
“Ninety, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “And we
have our own smith, chirurgeon, and bard.”
Maryn glanced at Nevyn for advice.
“It would pay to look them over, Your Highness, but
you’ll have to consult with your father the king first, of
course.”
“Well and good, then. Men, you may rise and stand in
our presence.” The prince glanced Nevyn’s way
again. “I don’t suppose I could go look them over
right now.”
“Not with the king expecting you back. Have the
captain bring them to you on the morrow.”
“Oh, very well. Captain. Caradoc, assemble your troop
before the gates of the royal palace on the morrow. Send me word through the
guards on the causeway.”
“Well and good, Your Highness. We’ll arrive around
noon.”
With a laugh of excitement, the young prince strode back to his
men. Nevyn winked at Maddyn, then rejoined his lord. As the royal
escort rode on, Caradoc stared openmouthed until they were out of
sight. He retrieved his ale from the street and led the way back to
the bench, where he sat down with an exaggerated heavy
sigh.
“Very well, Maddo. Who is that old man?”
“The herbman who saved my life up in Cantrae. Remember me
telling you about Brin Toraedic? And he’s the same one who
tipped Caudyr off to leave Dun Deverry.”
“An herbman for a prince’s tutor?
Horseshit.”
“Oh, by the gods, can’t you see what’s been
stuck under your face? The old man’s dweomer.”
Caradoc choked on his ale.
“Well, he’s the one who sent you the dream,”
Maddyn said after he’d recovered. “He admitted as much
to me.”
“Ah well, if we get this hire, it cursed well won’t
be dull, will it now? Dweomermen, impressive young princes—
it all sounds like one of your songs.”
“Oh, it’s stranger than any song I know. If
Nevyn’s come to live in Pyrdon, I’ll wager he’s
got grave things afoot, and the gods only know what they
are.”
“Now here,” Casyl snapped. “When I spoke of
getting you a personal guard, I was thinking of twenty men, not
ninety.”
“But, Father, there’s bound to be fighting next
summer. It would be splendid if I could lead close to a hundred
men.”
“Lead? Listen, you young cub, I’ve told you a
thousand times that you’re staying in the rear for your first
campaign.”
“Well, if you’re so worried, then the more men I
have, the safer I’ll be.”
Casyl growled under his breath, but it was a fond
exasperation.
“My liege the king?” Nevyn said. “If I may
interject a word?”
“By all means.”
“Although I doubt the prince’s motives, he does speak the
truth. The larger the guard, the better. The time might well come
soon when he’ll need many men around him.”
Casiyl turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes. They
were sitting in the shabby council chamber at a round table, set with
only a pair of wobbly bronze candelabra.
“Father.” Maryn leaned across the table. “You
know that Nevyn’s omens always come true.”
“It’s not a matter of his prediction, but of the
coin. How are we going to pay and shelter ninety
mercenaries?”
“I’ve got the taxes from that bit of land in my own
name. They’ll help provision the troop. I get two whole cows
this fall, just for starters.”
“And how long will it take hungry men to dispatch that
much beef?”
“But, Father! You’ve heard all those tales about the
silver daggers. If even half of them are true, why, they fight
like demons, from hell!”
Casyl leaned back in his chair and idly rubbed his chin, with
the back of his hand while he thought it over. Nevyn waited
silently, knowing that Maryn was bound to get his own way in the
end.
“Well,” Casyl said at last. “I
haven’t even gotten a look at them yet. I’ll review
them when they arrive tomorrow, and then we’ll see.”
“My thanks, Father. You know that the prince will always
put himself under the king’s orders.”
“Out, you little hypocrite! Go talk to your mother. She
told me earlier that she wanted a word with you.”
Maryn made him a formal bow, nodded to Nevyn, then ran
out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him, and breaking into
a loud whistle as he trotted down the hall.
“Ah ye gods, next summer my son rides to war! Tonight,
Nevyn, I feel as old as you.”
“No doubt, Your Highness, but I still hear a lad, not a
man, when he talks of the glories of war.”
“Of course, but he’ll learn. I only pray that our
next campaign is an easy one. Here, have you had some kind of
omen?”
“Of sorts. Your Highness, the king in Cerrmor is fated
to die soon, I think before the winter’s out.”
Casyl went very still, his hands tight on the arms of the
chair.
“His only son is dead.” Nevyn went on.
“His three daughters are too young to have sons yet. Tell
me, Your Highness, have you ever fancied yourself as king
in Deverry? When Glyn dies, you’re the
heir.”
“Ah, by the hells, it can’t be! He’s just a
young man.”
“Fevers and suchlike come to the young as well as the old.
Your Highness had best think carefully, because with a Cantrae wife
he won’t be terribly popular with his new vassals.”
Casyl sat so still, his eyes so heavy-lidded, that he seemed
asleep. Nevyn waited for a few minutes to let him think before he
went on.
“And about the silver daggers, Your Highness?
You’ll need men like that if you’re going to have a
chance to claim the Cerrmor throne.”
“Chance? Don’t be a dolt, man! Even if I had an army
twice the size of the one I do, my chance is about as good as a
flea’s in a soap bath, and I think me you know it.”
“If the Cerrmor lords accept you, then you have a very
good chance, my liege.”
Casyl rose and paced to the open window, where the cold night
air came in with a heavy scent of damp.
“If I strip my kingdom of men to march on Cerrmor, Eldidd
will march north. It’s a question of trading one kingdom for
another, isn’t it? Throwing away the land I have in a bid to
gain land I’ve never seen. There are men in Cerrmor who have
claims as good as mine. Somewhere back in my family line is a
bastard son, and the other factions could easily use that against
me. And while we all squabble over Cerrmor, the Cantrae line will
be taking over the rest of the kingdom. Does it sound like a fair
bargain to you?”
“It doesn’t, my liege, especially since I know a man
who has a better claim to the throne of all Deverry than any other
man alive.”
“Indeed?” Casyl turned, leaning back casually on the
window frame, smiling a little in academic interest. “And who
might that be?”
“Does His Highness truly have no idea?”
Casyl froze,
only his mouth working in a twist of pain.
“I think me he
does.” Nevyn was inexorable. “Your son, my liege.
While a Cantrae wife would be held against you, a Cantrae mother
strengthens Maryn’s position a hundredfold. He has ties to
every royal line, even Eldidd, strong ties.”
“So he does,” Casyl’s voice was a whisper. “Oh
ye gods! I never gave a moment’s thought to it before, truly. I
never dreamt the Cerrmor line would fail like this. Do you think that
Maryn has a chance at acceptance, or will he have to fight for his
throne?”
“I think me Cerrmor will welcome him. Will they want a
Cantrae king on the throne instead?”
“Of course not.” Casyl began pacing back and forth.
“It’s going to be a hard and dangerous road to the
throne, but how can I deny my son’s claim to his
Wyrd?”
“There’s more at stake than Maryn’s Wyrd. This
is a matter of grave import for the entire kingdom. Truly, I know
that I’ve talked of strange omens and suchlike without a
shred of proof, but you’ll know that I’ve spoken the
truth when news comes of Glyn’s death. In the meantime, it
might be politic to hire Maryn as large a guard as
possible.”
“Politic indeed if he’s the heir to two thrones.
Done, then. I’ll have a look at those silver daggers on the
morrow.”
On the morrow morning, Maryn was restless beyond a simple
excitement at the chance to acquire a personal guard. When Nevyn
suggested that they have a talk, the prince insisted on leaving the
dun and going down to the narrow sandy beach of the island where
they could be completely private. Although it was unseasonably warm
still, thin cirrus clouds mackereled the sky, and the leaves on the
birches were a sickly yellow.
“Very well, Your Highness,” Nevyn said once they
were settled on an outcrop of rock. “What grave matter is
troubling you?”
“Maybe it’s naught. Maybe I’m going daft or
suchlike.”
“Indeed? Out with it.”
“Well, when I met those silver daggers yesterday, I got
the strangest feeling. This is the beginning, the feeling said. You
hear about men’s Wyrds talking to them, but I never truly
understood before. I do now, because I heard my Wyrd say that to
me. Or am I daft?”
“Not daft at all, truly. Your Wyrd is gathering, sure
enough.”
Slack-mouthed, the prince stared out over the lake, rippling as
the wind rose in a gust that shook the birches.
“Are you afraid, Your Highness?”
“Not for myself. I just thought of somewhat. Nevyn, if
I’m meant to be king, then men are going to die for me.
There’ll have to be a war before I can claim the
throne.”
“That’s true.”
He was silent for a long while more, looking so young, so
absurdly smooth-faced and wide-eyed, that it seemed impossible that
here sat the true king of all Deverry. For all that Maryn had taken
his training well, at fourteen he was far from ready for the
work ahead, but then, Nevyn doubted if any man, no matter how old and
wise, would ever be truly ready.
“I don’t want all those deaths on my head.” He
spoke abruptly, with the ring of command in his voice.
“Your Highness has no choice. If you refuse to take your
Wyrd upon you, then more men will die fighting to put some false
king on your throne.”
Tears welled in his eyes; he brushed them irritably away on his
sleeve before he answered.
“Then I’ll follow my Wyrd.” He rose, and
suddenly he looked older. “Let no man bar me from my rightful
place.”
Just at noon the message came that the silver daggers
had arrived. Nevyn rode out with Maryn and the king to conduct
something of a test of his plans. Out in the meadow at the end of
the causeway, the men sat on horseback in orderly ranks with
Caradoc, Maddyn, and a young man that Nevyn didn’t recognize
front and center. Behind them was a disorderly mob of pack horses,
wagons, women, and even a few children.
“That’s a surprise,” Maryn remarked. “I
didn’t think men like this would have wives.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them wives,” Casyl
said. “There’s still a few things you have to learn,
lad.”
Nevyn and Maryn rode behind the king as he trotted over to
Caradoc. Nevyn was not impressed with the troop at first sight.
Although they were reasonably clean and their weapons were in good
repair, they were a hard-bitten, scruffy lot, slouching in their
saddles, watching the royalty with barely concealed insolence. At
every man’s belt, the silver hilt of the dagger gleamed like
a warning. Caradoc, however, bowed low from the saddle at the
king’s approach.
“Greetings, Your Highness. I’ve brought my men as
the young Prince ordered. I most humbly hope Your Highness will
find them acceptable.”
“We shall see, but if I should offer you shelter, then
you’ll be riding at the prince’s orders, not
mine.”
Caradoc glanced at Maryn with a slight, skeptical smile, as if
he were reckoning up the lad’s age. In his mind Nevyn called
upon the High Lords of Air and Fire, who promptly answered the prearged signal and came to cluster around the lad. Their
force enveloped him, giving him a faint glow, an aura of power. A light
wind sprang up to ruffle his hair and swell his plaid, and it
seemed that the very sunlight was brighter where it fell
upon him. Caradoc started to speak, then bowed again, dipping as
low as he could.
“I think me it would be a great honor to ride for you, my
prince. Would you care to review my men?”
“I would, but let me warn you, Captain. If you take this
hire you’ll be riding with me on a long road indeed. Of
course, only the hard roads lead to true glory.”
Caradoc bowed again, visibly shaken to hear the lad talk like
the hero of a bard’s tale. The silver daggers came to a
stiff-backed attention in a sudden respect, and the young
lieutenant beside Maddyn caught his breath sharply. When Nevyn
glanced his way, he nearly swore aloud: Gerraent, with the falcon
mark on shin and sword hilt just as it always seemed to be.
“This is Owaen, good councillor.” Caradoc noticed
his interest. “Second-in-command in battle. Maddyn’s
our bard, and also second-in-command in peaceful doings.”
“You seem to keep things well in hand, Captain,”
Maryn said.
“I do my best, my prince.”
Owaen was looking Nevyn over with more curiosity than he showed
for either the prince or the king. In those hard blue eyes Nevyn
saw the barest trace of recognition, a spark of their old, mutual
hatred, that lasted only briefly before it was replaced by
bewilderment. Doubtless Owaen was wondering how he could feel so
strongly about an unarmed old man that he’d only just met.
Nevyn gave him a small smile and looked away again. He was seething
with a personal excitement; here were Gerraent and Blaen, now
called Owaen and Maddyn, and there was Caradoc, who in a former
life had been king himself in Cerrmor under the name of Glyn the
First. Glyn had been such a good king that Nevyn was shocked to
find him as an outcast man and a silver dagger until he reminded
himself that just such a man was essential now to the well-being of
the kingdom. A mercenary like Caradoc fought for only one thing:
victory. Not for him the niceties and snares of honor; he would
stoop to any ruse or low trick if he had to in order to win. The
members of his charmed circle of Wyrd were all gathering for the
work, and that meant that somewhere soon Brangwen’s soul
would join them. Soon he would have another chance to untangle his
snarl of Wyrd.
All at once he remembered the camp followers, hovering at a
respectful distance behind their men. He felt sick, wondering i
she were among them. Could she have fallen so low in this life? For a moment, he was honestly afraid to look; then he steeled
himself. When Casyl and Caradoc began discussing the terms of the
hire, Nevyn left the prince in the care of the lords of the
elements and jogged his horse along the ranks, as if the
prince’s councillor were having one last good look at the men
his liege wished to take into his guard. Maddyn broke ranks to join
him.
“Let’s leave the horse trading to Carro and your
king. By the hells, Nevyn, it gladdens my heart to think
we’ll be spending the winter in the same dun. I know Caudyr
will want to talk with you, too.”
“Caudyr?” It
took him a moment to remember the young chirurgeon of Dun
Deverry. “Well, now, is that young cub the chirurgeon Caradoc
spoke of? I take it he followed my advice, all those years
ago.”
“So he did, and I’ll wager it saved his
life when Slwmar died, too.”
“Good. It seems he took my advice about abortions as well,
judging from the pack of children I see over there. How many lasses
have you picked up along the road, Maddo? I seem to remember that
you’ve always had luck with women.”
“Oh, these are hardly all mine. We share what we can get
when we can, you see.”
Nevyn did see, entirely too well. The thought of Brangwen living
passed from man to man was like a bitter taste of poison in his
mouth. Most of the women were riding astride, their skirts hitched
up around them, some with a small child behind them, but all of
them, mothers or not, were as hard-eyed and suspicious as their
men. At the very rear, a pale blond woman was sitting in a mule
cart, cushioned by blankets as she nursed a baby.
“That’s Clwna,” Maddyn said, gesturing at her.
“When we’re back at the dun, I’d be ever so
grateful if you or some other herbman would have a look at her. She
hasn’t been well since the babe was born, and Caudyr
can’t seem to mend her. She’s as much my woman as any
of them are.”
“Oh, let’s talk to her right now.”
Nevyn’s heart sank with dread. “The king and your captain will
doubtless be a while yet.”
When they rode over, Clwna glanced up indifferently. There were
dark circles like bruises under her blue eyes, and her skin far too
pale. Nevyn almost gasped in relief when he realized she was not
his Brangwen at all.
“This is Nevyn, the best herbman in the
kingdom,” Maddyn said with forced cheer. “He’ll have you right as rain
straightaway, my sweet.”
Clwna merely smiled as if she doubted it.
“Well, it’s a simple enough diagnosis, truly,”
Nevyn said. “A good midwife would have spotted it in a
minute, but the only women Caudyr’s ever tended were rich and
well fed. Here, lass, your blood is weak because you just birthed a
babe, and I’ll wager you haven’t been eating right. Get
an apple, put an iron nail in it, and leave it there overnight.
Then take it out and eat the apple. You’ll see the red streak
of the sanguine humor, which is what you need. Do that every night
for a fortnight, and then we’ll see.”
“My thanks,” Clwna was stammering in surprise.
“It’s good of a courtly man like you to give advice to
a silver dagger’s wench.”
“Oh, I’m not as courtly as I seem. Here, your babe
is a pretty little thing. Who’s the father?”
“And how would I know, my lord?” She shrugged in
sincere indifference. “Maddyn’s or Aethan’s, most
like, but she could be the captain’s, too.”
In return for their winter’s keep and a silver piece a man
if they should see any fighting, Caradoc pledged his loyalty to
Prince Maryn through the spring, with terms to be renegotiated at
Beltane. Getting so large a troop quartered in the cramped island
dun was something of a problem. The chamberlain and the captain of
Casyl’s warband conferred for an hour, then sent servants
running all over the ward until at last the mercenaries had a
barracks of their own, a stable for their horses, and a shed
for their wagons and extra gear. The chamberlain was an old man
with an amazing mind for details and a scrupulous sense of
propriety. He was quite outraged, he told Nevyn, to find that the
silver daggers found nothing wrong with keeping the women right in
the same barracks with them.
“Well, why not?” Nevyn, said.
“It’ll keep the lasses safe from the
king’s riders. Or do you want fights all winter
long?”
“But what of those innocent
children?”
“Let us profoundly hope that
they’re sound sleepers.”
After the evening meal Nevyn
went out to visit Maddyn in the barracks. When he came into the
long room, dimly lit by firelight, he had to pause for a moment
and catch his breath at the combined reek of horse, man sweat,
and smoke. Most of the men were playing dice; the women
huddled at the far end to gossip among themselves while the babies
slept nearby. At the hearth, Maddyn, Caradoc, and Caudyr sat on the floor and talked, while Owaen lay
stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms.
Although he seemed asleep, he looked up briefly when Maddyn
introduced him to Nevyn, then went back to watching the fire.
“Come sit down,” Caudyr said, sliding over a bit to
make room. “It gladdens my heart to see you again. I thought that a
sorcerer like you would have more important work at hand than
selling herbs.”
“Oh, the herbs are important in their own way, too, lad.
Now tell me, how did you end up with that silver dagger in your
belt?”
For a long while Caudyr, Maddyn, and Nevyn talked of old times,
while Caradoc listened with close attention and Owaen fell asleep.
At length the talk turned inevitably to Nevyn’s strange
employment in the king’s palace. Nevyn put them off with
vague questions until Caradoc joined in.
“Here, good sorcerer, what’s the dweomer doing
hiring a piss-poor bunch of men like us? I think me we’ve got
a right to know, since you’re asking us to die for the prince
as like as not.”
“Now here, Captain, I’m not asking a thing of you.
The prince is the one who gives you meat and mead.”
“Horseshit. The prince does what you tell him, at least
when somewhat important’s at stake.” He exchanged a
glance with Maddyn. “I was impressed with the lad, very
impressed, you might say.”
“Indeed?”
When Caradoc hesitated, Maddyn leaned forward.
“You’ve found the true king, haven’t you?
Admit it, Nevyn. That lad has to be the true king, or no one on
earth ever will be.”
Although he wanted to whoop and dance in triumph, Nevyn
restrained himself to a small, cryptic smile.
“Tell me, Captain,” he said casually. “How
would you feel about leading your men all the way to Dun Deverry
someday?”
Caradoc pulled his silver dagger and held it point up to catch
the wink and glint of firelight
“This is the only honor any of us have left, and I’ll swear
you an oath on it. Either I see the king on his throne, or I die
over the Prince’s body.”
“And you’re willing to die for a man you saw for
the first time today?”
“Why not? Better than dying for some little pusboil of an
arrogant minor lord.” With a laugh he sheathed the dagger.
“And when does the war begin?”
“Soon, Captain. Very soon.”
Smiling to himself, Caradoc nodded. Nevyn felt like weeping. He
could see in the captain’s berserker eyes the bloody price
they would all pay for victory.
Since everyone in Eldidd knew about the silver daggers, the news
that they’d left for Pyrdon spread fast. It was just his
luck, Branoic decided, that they’d move on just when he
needed to find them. Even though a single rider could travel faster
than a troop with a baggage train, they had a head start, of some
ten nights, and he never caught them on the road. After one last
cold night of sleeping outside because he couldn’t afford an
inn, he rode into Drwloc around noon and found a cheap tavern, where he spent his
last two coppers on a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. He ate
standing up with his back to the wall while he kept an eye on the
other patrons, who were a scruffy lot to his way of
thinking. As soon as the trade would allow, the serving lass
minced over to him with a suggestive little smile. Unwashed and
skinny, she appealed to him about as much as the flea-bitten
hounds by the hearth, but he decided that he might as well get
some information out of her.
“How far is it to King Casyl’s dun,
lass?”
“About two miles on the west-running road. You must be
from a long way away if you don’t know
that.”
“I am, truly. Now tell me, has a troop of mercenaries
been through here? They hail from Eldidd, the lads I want,
and they all carry daggers with silver pommels.”
“Oh, they were, sure enough, and a nasty lot they
looked. I don’t know why the king took them on.”
“Because they’re some of the best fighting men in
the three kingdoms, no doubt.”
He strode away before she could flirt with him further. Out in
the tavern yard his chestnut gelding stood waiting, laden with
everything he owned in the world: a bedroll, a pair of
mostly empty saddlebags, and a shield nicked and battered,
under its coat of dirty whitewash. He hoped that Caradoc
wouldn’t hold his lack of mail against him, but he had a
good sword at least, and he knew how to use it.
When Branoic rode up to the causeway leading to Casyl’s dun, the
guards refused to let him pass, and no more would they take in
message for a dirty and dangerous-looking stranger. Since had he no
money for a bribe, Branoic tried first courtesy, then argument, but
neither worked. The guards only laughed and told him that if he
wanted to see Caradoc, he’d have to camp there until the captain rode out. By then Branoic was so furious that he was tempted
to draw his sword and force the issue, but common sense prevailed.
He hadn’t ridden all the way from Eldidd only to get himself
hanged by some petty king.
“Well and good, then,” he said. “I’ll sit at
your gates and starve until you’re shamed enough to let me
in.”
As he strode away, leading his horse, he glanced back to see the
guards looking apprehensive, as if they believed him capable of it.
In truth, since he had neither coin nor food, he had little choice
in the matter. In the meadow across the road he slacked the
chestnut’s bit and let it graze, then sat down where he could
glare at the guards and be easily seen. As the morning crept by,
they kept giving him nervous looks that might have been inspired by
guilt, but of course, they may have been merely afraid of his
temper. Although he was only twenty, Branoic was six foot four,
broad in the shoulders, with the long arms of a born swordsman and
a warrior’s stance. Down his left cheek was a thick, puckered
scar, a souvenir of the death duel that had gotten him exiled from
his father’s dun in Belglaedd. Better men than Casyl’s
guards had found him nerve-wracking before.
He’d been waiting by the road about two hours when he
heard the blare of silver horns. As the farther gates opened, the
guards by the road snapped to smart attention. Walking their horses
down the causeway rode the silver daggers, sitting with the easy,
arrogant slump in their saddles that he remembered. At their head
was a lad of about fourteen, with a red, gold, and white plaid
slung from his shoulder. When Branoic started forward, one of the
guards yelled at him.
“You! Get back! That’s the marked prince, Maryn, and
don’t you go bothering the captain when he’s riding
with him.”
Although it griped his soul, Branoic retreated without arguing,
The affairs of a prince were bound to take precedence over those of
a commoner. He was just about to sit back down when he heard
himself being hailed, but this time by the prince himself. He
hurried back over and clasped the lad’s stirrup as a sign
of humility.
“Any man who asks has access to me.” Maryn shot a
pointed glance at the guards. “A prince is the shepherd
of his people, not one of the wolves. Remember that from now on.” He turned
back to Branoic with a distant but gracious smile. “Now. What
matter do you have to lay before me?”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic was
practically stammering in amazement. “But truly, all I wanted
was a word with Caradoc.”
“Well, that’s an easily granted boon. Get your horse
and ride with us a ways.”
Branoic ran to follow his order. When he fell into line beside
Caradoc, the captain gave him an oddly sly smile.
“Branoic of Belglaedd, is it? What are you doing on the
long road north?”
“Looking for you. Do you remember when last we met? You
told me you’d take me on if I wanted to ride with you. Was
that just a jest?”
“It was a jest only because I didn’t think
you’d want to leave your noble father’s court,
not because I wouldn’t be glad to have you in my
troop.”
“Thanks be to the gods, then. A bastard son’s got a
shorter welcome than a silver dagger unless he minds every
courtesy. I’ve been exiled. It was over an honor
duel.”
Caradoc’s eyebrows shot up.
“I heard about that. You killed the youngest son of the
gwerbret of Elrydd, wasn’t it? But why would your father
turn you out over that? I heard it was a fair fight.”
“It was, and judged so by a priest of Bel,
too.” For a moment Branoic had trouble speaking; he
felt as if he could physically choke on the injustice. “But
it made my father a powerful enemy, and so he kicked me out to
appease the misbegotten gwerbret. The whole way north, I was
afraid for my life, thinking that Elrydd would have me murdered on
the road. But either I’ve thought ill of him unjustly, or
else I gave his men the slip.”
“I’d say the latter, from what I remember of His
Grace. Well and good, lad, you’re on, but you have to earn
this dagger. If we see fighting, you’ll get a full share of
the pay, mind, but you’ll have to prove yourself before I
have Otho the smith make you a blade. Agreed?”
“Agreed. And my thanks—there’s not a
soul in the world to take me in but you.”
For a few minutes they rode in silence. Branoic studied
the young prince riding some few yards ahead and wondered what
it was that made him seem so unusual. He was a handsome boy, but there
were plenty of good-looking men in the kingdom, and none of them had
his aura of glamour and power. There were other princes,
too, who had his straight-backed self-confidence and gracious ways,
but none that seemed to have ridden straight out of an old epic
like Maryn. At times, it seemed as if the very air around him
crackled and snapped with some unseen force.
“And what do you
think of our lord?” Caradoc said quietly.
“Well, he
makes me remember some odd gossip I heard down in Eldidd.”
“Gossip?”
“Well, omens and suchlike.”
“Omens of what?”
In a fit of embarrassment Branoic merely shrugged.
“Out with it, lad.”
“Well, about the one true king of Deverry.”
Caradoc laughed under his breath.
“If you stick with this troop, lad, you’ll be leaving
Eldidd and Pyrdon far behind. Can you stomach that?”
“Easily. Oh, here—what are you telling me? Will we
be riding all the way to Dun Deverry some fine day?”
“We will, at that, but I can promise you a long bloody
road to the Holy City.” Caradoc turned in his saddle.
“Maddyn, get up here! We’ve got a new
recruit.”
Somehow or other, Branoic had missed meeting the bard in his
previous encounters with the silver daggers. About thirty-three, he
was a slender but hard-muscled man with a mop of curly blond hair,
streaked with gray at the temples, and world-weary blue eyes.
Branoic liked him from the moment he met him. He felt in some odd
way that they must have known each other before, even though he
couldn’t remember when or how. All that afternoon, Maddyn
introduced him around, explained the rules of the troops, found him
a stall for his horse and a bunk when they returned to the dun, and
generally went out of his way to make him feel at ease. At the evening meal
they sat together, and Branoic found it easy to let the bard do most of
the talking.
The other lieutenant in the troop, Owaen, was a different
matter. They had barely finished eating when he strode over, his
tankard in hand, and Branoic found himself hating him. There
was just something about the way that the arrogant son of a bitch stood,
he decided, all posturing with his head tossed back, his free hand
on the hilt of his silver dagger.
“You!” Owaen snapped. “I see by your blazon
that you used to ride for the Eagle clan of Belglaedd.”
“I did. What’s it to you?”
“Naught, except for one small thing.” Owaen paused
for an insolent sip of ale. “You’ve got the clan
device all over your gear. I want it taken off.”
“What!?”
“You heard me.” Owaen touched the yoke of his shirt,
which sported an embroidered falcon. “Those eagles look too
much like my device. I want them gone.”
“Oh, do you now?” Slowly and carefully Branoic swung
free of the bench and stood up to face him. Dimly he was aware that
the hall had fallen silent. “I was born into that clan, you
piss-proud little mongrel. I’ve got every right to wear that
device if I want, and want it I do.”
Like dweomer Caradoc
materialized in between them and laid a restraining hand on
Branoic’s sword arm.
“Listen, Owaen,” the captain said. “The
lad’s gear will get lost or broken soon enough, and the
eagles fly away of their own accord.”
“That’s not soon enough.”
“I won’t have fighting in our prince’s,
hall.”
Then let’s go out in the ward,” Branoic broke in,
“Let’s settle it, Owaen, with a fistfight
between the two of us, and the winner gets the
device.”
“For a new man, you’re an insolent little
bastard.” Then Owaen caught the grim look on
Caradoc’s face. “Oh, very well, then. You’re
on.”
Nearly everyone in the great hall trooped after them to watch
when they went out. While a couple of pages ran off for
torches, the combatants took off their sword belts and
handed them to Maddyn. Wagers went back and forth between the
onlookers. When the torches arrived, Branoic and Owaen faced
off and began circling, sizing each other up. Since Branoic
had won every fistfight he’d ever fought, he was
confident—too confident. He plunged straight in, swung, and
felt Owaen block his punch, at the same moment that a fist jammed
into his stomach. Gasping he dodged back, but Owaen was right there,
dancing in from the side, clipping him on the side of the jaw.
Although the blow stung more than hurt, Branoic went into a
berserker rage, swinging back, punching, feeling nothing but a
swelling dizziness as Owaen hlocked and danced and hit in
return.
“Enough!” Caradoc’s voice sliced through the
red haze surrounding him. “I said hold and stand, by the
Lord of Hell’s balls!”
Arms grabbed him and pulled
him back. With a gasp for breath Branoic tossed his head and saw blood
scatter from a cut over his left eye. Owaen was standing in front of
him, his nose running blood. He smiled as Branoic took a step back
and felt his knees buckle under him. When the men holding him
lowered him gently to the cobbles, all he could do was sit there,
gasping for breath, feeling his face and stomach throb with pain
and the blood run down his cheek.
“This had better end it,” Caradoc said. “Owaen gets
the little chickens since he’s so fond of them, but I
don’t want anyone mocking Branoic for this, either. Hear
me?”
There were mutters of agreement from the other silver daggers.
In a flood of good-natured laughter the crowd broke up, settling
wagers as they drifted back to the great hall. Branoic stayed
outside; he felt so humiliated that he was sure he could never look
another man in the face again. Maddyn caught his arm and helped him
stand.
“Now look, lad, I’ve never seen a man before who
could give Owaen a bloody nose.”
“You don’t need to lie to spare my
feelings.”
“I’m not. If you can keep Owaen from knocking you
out cold on the cobbles, then you’ve won a victory of
sorts.”
It was so sincerely said that Branoic felt his shame lift.
Stumbling and staggering, he had to lean on Maddyn as they headed
for the barracks. About halfway there they were stopped by the old
man whom Maddyn had pointed out earlier as the prince’s
councillor. Nevyn held up the lantern he was carrying and peered
into Branoic’s bleeding face.
“I’ll tell Caudyr to get out to the barracks. This
lad needs a couple of stitches in that cut over his eye. Make sure
you get him to lie down, Maddo.”
“Oh, I’ll wager he won’t be wanting to dance the
night away.”
Although Branoic tried to smile at the jest, his mouth hurt too
badly. Suddenly Nevyn looked straight into his eyes, and the gaze
caught him like a spear, impaling deep into his soul. In his muddled state
he felt as if he’d been trying to find this man all his life
for some reason that he should remember, that he absolutely had to
remember. Then the insight vanished in a flood of nausea.
“He’s going to heave,” Nevyn said calmly.
“That’s all right, lad. Get it all out.”
Branoic dropped to his knees and vomited, his stomach burning
from Owaen’s fist. Never in his life had he felt so
humiliated, that Nevyn would see him like this, but when he was
finally done and looked up to apologize, the old man was gone.
Nevyn returned to his chamber, lit the ready-laid fire with a
wave of his hand, and sat down in a comfortable chair to think
about this blond, young Eldidd man that Caradoc had brought in from
the road like a stray dog. Nevyn had recognized him the moment
he’d seen him, or rather, he knew perfectly well that he
should recognize the soul looking out through those cornflower-blue
eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite remember who
he’d been in former lives. While Maddyn felt well disposed to
the lad, Owaen had hated him on sight, a mutual feeling, it
seemed. Logically, then, in his last life Branoic might have been
a loyal member of Gweniver’s warband, still bearing his old
grudge against the man who had tried to rape a holy priestess.
Since Nevyn had never paid any particular attention to the warband,
it was also logical that he wouldn’t remember all its
members. On the other hand, he’d felt such a strong dweomer
touch at the sight of the lad that surely he had to be someone more
important than one of Gwyn and Ricyn’s riders.
“Maybe her brother-in-law?” he said aloud.
“What was his name, anyway? Ye gods, I can’t
remember that either!! I must be getting old.”
Over the next few days, his mind at odd moments worried over
the problem of Branoic’s identity like a terrier in front of
a rat cage—it growled and snapped but couldn’t get the
rat out. He did decide, however, that the lad’s arrival was
an omen of sorts, a true one rather than another faked and
theatrical glamour such as those that he and the priests were
spreading about the coming of the king. One or two at a time, men
he had trusted in lives past were coming to help him bring peace to
the kingdom.
Soon enough, he had news of an ominous kind to occupy his
attention. Some weeks past, he had sent to the temple of Bel at
Hendyr for copies of two important works on Deverry common law,
and when the messenger returned he also brought a letter from Dannyr, the high priest down in Cerrmor, a letter that was twice
sealed and written in the ancient tongue of the Homeland few could read.
“King Glyn has fallen ill,” Dannyr wrote. “Everyone
whispers of poison, although such seems doubtful to me. The king’s
chirurgeons have diagnosed a congestion of the liver, and
truly, it is no secret that the king has indulged himself with mead in
unseemly quantities ever since he was old enough to drink. Yet I thought it wise to
inform you of these rumors nonetheless, for we cannot have it said that
the true king poisoned one of his rivals. Any counsel you might send
would be appreciated, but for the love of every god, write only in
the ancient tongue.”
When he finished, Nevyn swore aloud with vile oaths in both the
ancient and the modern tongues. Dannyr was exactly right; no one
would believe Maryn the true king if they thought he’d used
poison to gain a throne. All the blame—if, indeed, blame
there were—had to be cast onto the other claimant up in Dun
Deverry, or rather, onto the various minions of the Boar clan that
surrounded the eighteen-year-old king. At that point Nevyn
remembered Caudyr, and he thanked the Lords of Light with all his
soul for giving him the weapons he needed to win this battle. The
chirurgeon’s evidence about the circumstances surrounding
the death of the last king would no doubt throw any suspicion
firmly where it belonged. Smiling grimly to himself, Nevyn went to
his writing desk and drafted a letter to Dannyr straightaway.
Yet when he was done, and the letter safely sealed against the
off chance that there was someone around who could read it, he sat
at his desk for a long time and considered this matter of poison.
Even though it seemed that Glyn was dying of self-induced natural
causes, there was no doubt that poison had become available in the
torn kingdoms. Who was brewing it? What if there were followers of
the dark dweomer around, waiting their chance to plunge the country
deeper into chaos? And did they know about Maryn? He went cold all
over, cursing himself for a fool, for a proud, stupid dolt to think
he could keep such a crucial secret from those who made it their
business to ferret out secrets. He would have to see if his
suspicions were correct, and if they were, mere scrying through a
fire would be useless.
He barred the door to his chamber, then lay down on his bed, lying
on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. First he
calmed his breathing, then summoned the body of light, seeing
the glowing man shape first in his mind, then pouring
his will into it until it seemed to stand beside him in the
chamber. He transferred his consciousness over, heard a rushy
click, and floated in the air looking down at his inert body.
Slipping out a window, he flew up high until he could look down on
the dun, a black, dead lump in the throbbing silver mist of
elemental force arising from the lake Although the mist made it
difficult for him to hold his place—he was forced to fight
against some truly dangerous currents—still he was glad to
see it, because its presence would make scrying into the dun
difficult indeed. The lake had turned the dun into a safe fortress
on more planes than one.
Navigating carefully, Nevyn got clear of the lake’s aura
and flew over the sleeping countryside, a dull red-brown now that
autumn was sapping the energies of the plant life. In their true
forms, beautiful, ever-changing crystalline structures of colored
light, the Wildfolk swarmed around and accompanied him on his
flight. About five miles from the dun he had his first warning of
evil when the spirits paused, shuddering, then disappeared in
silver flashes and long winking-outs of light. He stopped and
waited, hovering above a patch of woodland to take imperfect
shelter in its ebbing glow. None of the Wildfolk returned. Whatever
had frightened them had done so badly. He flew up higher until the
blue light was as thick as fog, ever swirling and drifting, hiding
the landscape below. When he visualized light flowing from his
fingertips, light appeared, the volatile mind-stuff responding
instantly to the form he imposed upon it. With glowing lines of
light he drew an enormous sigil of protection in front of him.
Since it would be visible for a great distance, it was the perfect
bait to draw the attention of any other travelers on the etheric
that night.
For a long while he waited there like a hunter near a
snare until at last he saw another human-shaped body of light far off
from him in the blue mists. He drew another sigil, this one of
greeting and friendship, and was rewarded by seeing his fellow
traveler first go stock-still, then turn and flee at top speed.
Instinctively Nevyn started after, only to stop himself before
he’d gone far. He had no idea of how strong the enemy was
or even if he were alone. He was certain, however, that an enemy it
was. Any servant of the Light would have answered that sigil with
a similar one and then come to meet him.
Rather than risk some foolhardy battle, Nevyn returned to
the dun and his physical body. Stretching, he sat up on the bed and
looked into the fire on the hearth.
“Bad news. I think me
that someone’s spying on us.”
In alarm the spirits of
fire flared up, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“If you see anything the least bit unusual, tell
me.”
Within the flames the gleaming salamanders nodded their
agreement. Nevyn got up, took his heavy cloak, and left the
chamber. He went up the spiral staircase to the last landing
of the broch, where a trapdoor gave access to the roof. After a
quick glance round to make sure that no servants were there to see
this eccentric behavior on the part of the learned councillor, he
pried it up and climbed out onto the roof. He had a strange sort of
guard to post.
First he raised his arms high and called upon the power of the
Holy Light that stands behind all the gods. Its visible symbol came
to him in a glowing spear that pierced him from head to foot. For a
moment he stood motionless, paying it homage, then stretched his
arms out shoulder high, bringing the light with them to form a
shaft across his chest. As he stood within the cross, the light
swelled, strengthening him, then slowly faded of its own will. When
it was gone, he lowered his arms, then visualized a sword of
glowing light in his right hand. Once the image lived apart from
his will, he circled the roof, walking deosil, and used the sword
to draw a huge ring of golden light in the sky. As the ring settled
to earth, it sheeted out, forming a burning wall around the entire
dun. Three times around he went, until the wall lived on the
etheric of its own will.
At each ordinal point, he put a seal in the shape of a
five-pointed star made of blue fire. Once the four directions were
sealed, he spread the light until it was not a ring but a
hemisphere over the dun like a canopy. He made two last seals at
zenith and nadir, then withdrew the force from the astral sword
until it vanished. To signify the end of the working, he stamped
three times on the roof. The dome, however, remained
visible—that is, visible to someone with dweomer sight.
Although he would have to renew the seals five times a day, whenever
the astral tides changed, everyone within the dome would be safe
from evil, prying eyes.
Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, for the air nipped with
the promise of winter, he went to the wall and idly looked down into
the ward. Someone was walking there, and the way he moved was suspicious: taking a few steps, pausing to look
carefully round, then walking slowly on again. With his mind full
of thoughts of spies, Nevyn left the roof and rushed down the
inside staircase so fast that he nearly ended his physical
existence there and then. When he ran out into the ward, the
mysterious figure was no longer in sight. Muttering under his
breath, he summoned Wildfolk, among them a large mottled gnome who
had indeed seen the prowler. The gnome led him straight around the
main broch and toward the stables with absolutely no sign of fear,
which made Nevyn think he’d been overly dramatic to assume
that the dark dweomer had a spy right in the dun. Sure enough, when
he saw his quarry, he realized it was Branoic. Even in the dark
the lad’s sheer size and the straight-backed way he stood
were recognizable.
“Good eve, lad. Taking the air?”
“In a way, Councillor. I . . . uh well . . . I thought I
saw a fire.”
“Ye gods! Where?”
“Well, I was wrong about it, you see.” The lad sounded
profoundly embarrassed. I’m cursed glad now that I didn’t go
waking everyone up. I must have just been having a bad
dream.”
“Indeed? Tell me about it.”
“Well, since I’m the new man I got the bunk right
by the drafty window in our barracks. I dreamt I was awake and
looking out, and the dun walls were blazing with fire. So I
started to shout the alarm, but then I remembered that this dun
has stone walls, not a wooden palisade or suchlike. Right then I
must have woken up. But I lay there thinking about it, and it
nagged at me, so I grabbed my boots and came to look around. And
as soon as I did, I realized that it had to be a dream, but it
was a demon-sent vivid one, good sir.”
Nevyn, was taken completely aback. Obviously this young
lout of a warrior had a touch of the dweomer, and in his dream
state had seen Nevyn sealing the walls. Yet none of the men in
the charmed circle of his Wyrd had ever shown such talents. By
the hells, he thought, and irritably; just who is he?
“Tell
me, do you often have dreams like that?”
“Well, sometimes. I mean, I’ve never dreamt
about fires, before, but at times I have these dreams that seem so
real, I’d swear I was wide awake. Every now and then . . . ” He let his voice trail away.
“Every now and again you dream somewhat that turns out to
be true.”
With a gulp of breath, Branoic stepped sharply back.
“If my lordship will excuse me,” he stammered.
“I’d best be gone. It’s freezing out
here.”
He turned and frankly ran from the man who’d discovered
his secret. Young dolt! Nevyn thought, but with some affection. He
would have to talk some more with Branoic, no matter who he . . . and
then he saw it, what had been right under his nose but so unwelcome
that he’d kept it at bay for days.
“It can’t be! The Lords of Wyrd wouldn’t do
this to me! Would they?”
And yet he was remembering his Brangwen’s last
incarnation, when as Gweniver she’d dreamt of becoming the
best warrior in all Deverry. In this life, the Lords of Wyrd had
given her a body fit to fulfill that dream and then, or so he
hoped, finally put it to rest. While every soul is at root of one
polarity, which translates into the sex of the physical body, each
spends part of its lifetimes in bodies of the opposite sex in order
to have a full experience of the worlds of form. Nevyn had simply
been refusing to see that such a time had come for Brangwen, his
lovely, delicate, little Gwennie as he still thought of her. For
all he knew, she was working out part of her Wyrd that had nothing
to do with him personally. Whatever the reason, she’d
returned to him just as he’d known she would, but as Branoic
of Belglaedd.
As he paced back and forth in the dark, silent ward, Nevyn was
sick with weariness. He could see a dark message for himself in her
soul’s choice of a body. Deep in his heart he’d been
hoping that she would love him again, that they would have a warm,
human relationship, not merely the cold discipline of apprentice
and master, Apparently such a love was forbidden; he saw Branoic as
a warning, that he was to teach the dweomer to the inner soul and
forget about the outer form and its emotions. As much as it
ached his heart, he would accept the will of the Great Ones, just
as he had accepted so much else in the long years since
he’d sworn his rash vow.
After all, he had work on hand so important that his own
feelings, even his own Wyrd, seemed utterly insignificant. Thinking
about the battle ahead he could lay aside his personal griefs and feel
hope kindling in his heart. Danger lay ahead, and great griefs, but afterward the Light would prevail again in the
shattered kingdom.
On the morrow, a cool but sunny day, Maddyn went for a stroll
round the edge of the lake. He found a warm spot in the shelter of
a leafless willow tree and sat down to tune his harp. It had never
been an expensive instrument, and now it was battered and nicked
from its long years of riding behind his saddle, yet it had the
sweetest tone of any harp in the kingdom. Although many a bard in
many a great lord’s hall had offered him gold for it, he
would rather have parted with a leg, and although those same bards
had begged him to tell them his secret, he never had. After all,
would they have believed him if he’d told the truth, that the
Wildfolk had enchanted it for him? He often saw them touching it,
stroking it all over like a beloved cat, and every time they did,
it sang with a renewed, heart-aching sweetness.
As he tuned the strings that day by the lake, the Wildfolk came
to listen, appearing out of the air, rising out of the water, sylph
and sprite and gnome, clustering round the man that they considered
their own personal bard.
“I think it’s time I made up a song about Prince
Maryn. I take it you think he’s the true king, too.
I’ve seen you riding on his saddle and clustering round him
in the hall.”
They all nodded, turning as solemn as he’d ever seen them
until an undine could stand the quiet no longer. Dripping with
illusionary water, she reached over and pinched a green gnome as
hard as she could. He slapped her, and they tussled, kicking and
biting, until Maddyn yelled at them to stop. All sulks, they sat
down again as far apart from each other as they could.
“That’s better. Maybe I’ll sing about Dilly
Blind first. Shall I?”
With little nods and grins, they crowded close. Over the years
Maddyn had elaborated the simple folk songs about Diily Blind and
the Wildfolk into something of an epic, adding verse after verse
and clarifying the various stories. He had taught his mock-saga to
bards in dun where there were noble children until half of Eldidd
knew the song. At moments like these, when the wars seemed far
away, it amused him to think that a children’s song would
outlive him, passed down from bard to bard when he was long since
in his warrior’s grave.
When the song was done—and it was a good twenty minutes
long—most of the Wildfolk slipped away, but a few lingered,
his blue sprite among them, sitting close beside him as he watched
the ripples in the lake, the harp silent in his hands. He
remembered that other lake up in Cantrae, ten years or so ago now,
that had tormented his thirst as he rode dying. It had been about
the same time of day, he decided, because the sun had rippled it
with gold flecks just as it was doing to Drwloc in front of him. He
could see in his mind the dark reeds and the white heron, and he
could feel, too, the burning thirst and the pain, the sickening
buzz of the flies and his dark despair.
“It was worth it,” he remarked to the sprite.
“It brought me to Nevyn, after all.”
She nodded and patted him gently on the knee. Maddyn smiled,
thinking of what lay ahead. There was not the least doubt in his
mind that Nevyn had found the man born to be king of all Deverry.
He believed with his heart and soul that the young prince had been
handpicked by the gods to reunite the kingdom. Soon he and the
other silver daggers would ride behind Maryn when he set out to
claim his birthright. The only thing Maddyn wondered about was when
the time would come. As the sunlight faded from the lake, and the
night wind began to pick up, it seemed to him that his entire life
had led to this point, when he, Caradoc, Owaen, and all the rest of
the men in his troop were poised and ready, like arrows nocked in
the bows of a line of archers. Soon would come the order to draw
and loose. Soon, he told himself, truly, soon enough.
He jumped to his feet and called out, a peal of his berserk
laughter ringing across the lake toward the sunset. The strings of
his harp sounded softly in answer, trembling in the wind. Grinning
to himself, he slung the harp over his shoulder and started back to
the dun, glowing with warm firelight and torchlight in the
gathering night.
The year 842. While he was walking down by the riverbank, Retyc
the high priest saw this omen. A flock of sparrows was pecking in
the grass. Suddenly a raven flew by. All the sparrows flew up and
followed the raven, just as if he were another sparrow and the
leader of their flock. Someday, His Holiness said, a man from
another people will come to lead Deverry men to war . . .
—The Holy Chronicles of Lughcarn
Late on a warm autumn day the silver daggers made their camp on
the grassy banks of the Trebycaver. It was an organized chaos:
ninety men tending a hundred and fifty horses, the fifteen women
who followed the camp pitching tents and getting supplies out of
the pair of wagons, the handful of bastard children running around
and shouting, free at last after a long day behind one saddle or
another. While the others worked, Maddyn and Caradoc strolled
through, shouting an order here, a jest there. By a pile of saddles
a weary Clwna was nursing her fussy new daughter, Pomyan. Clwna
looked so pale and faint that Maddyn hunkered down beside her.
“How do you fare, lass? You shouldn’t have ridden so
soon after having the babe.”
“Oh, I’m as well as I need to be. It was better than
never catching up to you again.”
“We could have waited a few days.”
“Huh. I’m sure the captain would have waited for the
likes of me.”
When she moved the baby to her other breast, the tiny lass
raised her head and looked cloudy-eyed at Maddyn. He smiled at her and wondered who her father was, a perennial question about
every child bom to the camp followers, although he was the only man
who seemed to care one way or the other. When Caradoc called him to
come walk on, he mentioned to the captain that he thought Clwna
looked ill.
“Well, she’ll have a couple of days to rest
now,” Caradoc said. “I think we’ll leave this
ragtag piss-poor excuse for a troop here while you and I ride to
see this so-called King Casyl.”
“Very well. I’ll admit we’re not much to look
at these days.”
“Never were, and all these wretched women and barracks
brats don’t help us give ourselves fine military
airs.”
“You could have ordered us to leave them behind when we
left Eldidd.”
“Horseshit. Believe it or not, there’s a bit of
honor left in your old captain’s heart, lad. They’re a
bunch of sluts, but it was my men who swelled their bellies,
wasn’t it? Besides, there was enough grumbling about leaving
Eldidd as it was. Didn’t want open mutiny.” Caradoc
sighed in profound melancholy. “We got soft there.
That’s the trouble with staying in one place too long.
Should’ve left Eldidd long ago.”
“I still don’t see why we left it now.”
Caradoc shot him a sour glance and led the way out of the camp
to the riverbank. In the slanting sun, the water ran rippled gold
through banks soft with wild grass.
“Don’t repeat this to anyone, or I’ll smash
your face for you,” Caradoc said. “But I moved us out
because of this dream I had.”
Maddyn stared, frankly speechless.
“In the dream someone was telling me that it was time.
Don’t ask me why or time for what, but I heard this voice,
like, and it sounded like a king’s voice, all arrogant and
commanding, telling me that it was time to leave and ride north. If
we starve in Pyrdon, then I’ll know the dream came from the
demons, but by the gods, I’ve never had a dream like that
before. Tried to ignore it for a blasted eightnight. Kept coming
back. Call me daft if you want.”
“Naught of the sort. But I’ve got to say that
I’m surprised to the bottom of my heart.”
“Not half as surprised as I was. I’m getting old.
Daft. Soon I’ll be drooling in a chair by a tavern
fire.” Caradoc sighed again and shook his head in mock
sadness. “But we’re about ten miles from this King
Casyl’s dun. Tomorrow we’ll ride up there and see just
how daft I was. Let’s get back to camp now. I’ll be
leaving Owaen in charge, and I want to give him his
orders.”
On the morrow, Maddyn and Caradoc left the camp early and
followed the river up to the town of Drwloc. After the splendors of
Abernaudd, the town wasn’t much as royal cities went, about
two thousand houses crammed inside a timber-laced stone wall.
As they led their horses along streets paved with half-buried logs
for want of cobbles, Maddyn began to wonder if Caradoc was indeed
going daft. If this was the jewel of the kingdom, it seemed that
the king wouldn’t be able to afford the silver daggers. They
found a tavern over by the north gate, got themselves ale, then
asked casual questions about the king and his holdings. When the
tavernman held forth upon his liege’s honor, bravery, and
farseeing mind without ever mentioning luxuries or reserves of
cash, Caradoc grew positively gloomy.
“Tell me somewhat,” the captain said at last.
“Does His Highness keep a large standing army?”
“As large a one as he can feed. You never know what those
Eldidd dogs are going to do.”
This news made him a good bit more cheerful. They took their ale
outside to sit on a small wooden bench in front of the tavern. In
the warm hazy day, the townsfolk hurried past on assorted errands,
an old peasant leading a mule laden with cabbages, a young merchant
in much mended checked brigga, a pretty lass who ignored them both
in the most pointed fashion.
“We should have ridden north earlier,” Caradoc said.
“His Highness isn’t going to want to feed extra men all
winter when the summer’s fighting is done. Ah, curse that
dream! May the demon who sent it to me drown in a tub of horse
piss.”
“Well, there’s no harm in riding out to
ask.”
With a gloomy nod, Caradoc sipped his ale. Down the twisting
street, a silver horn rang out; a squad of horsemen appeared,
walking their mounts at a stately pace. At their head were two
riders with rearing stallions blazoned on their shirts, and a guard
of four more rode behind. In the middle, on a splendid bay gelding,
rode a handsome blond lad of about fourteen. His white, red, and
gold plaid cloak was thrown back and pinned at one shoulder with an
enormous ring brooch of gold set with rubies. Beside him on a
matched bay was an old man with a thick shock of white hair and
Piercing blue eyes. Maddyn stared briefly, then jumped up with a
shout.
“Nevyn! By all the gods!”
Grinning broadly, the old man turned his horse out of line and
waved, paused to say something to the lad, then rode over, dismounting as Maddyn ran up to greet him. Maddyn clasped his
outretched hand and shook it hard.
“By the hells, it gladdens my
heart to see you, sir.”
“And mine to see you,” Nevyn said with a somewhat
sly smile “See, I told you that our paths would cross
again.”
“And right you were. What are you doing in
Pyrdon?”
“Tutoring the marked prince. Are the rest of
the silver daggers with you?”
“Not far, just camped
down the river. Wait—how do you know about them?”
“How do you think? Has your captain had any strange dreams
lately?”
Maddyn turned cold with an awe that ran down his back like
melting snow. Tankard in hand, a puzzled Caradoc strolled over to
join them as the young prince dismounted and led his horse over to
join his tutor. When Maddyn and Caradoc knelt to him, the prince
gave them a courteous nod of acknowledgment, but the gesture was
splendidly firm for one so young. Maddyn was instantly struck by
how noble the young prince was, the gallant way he stood, the proud
set to his head, the easy way his hand rested on his sword hilt, as
if he’d seen many a battle beyond his years. A prince indeed,
he thought, born to be king. At the thought, his cold awe grew
stronger, and he wondered just why Nevyn the sorcerer was here in
this obscure kingdom.
“Your Highness,” the old man said,
“Allow me to present Maddyn the silver dagger, and the
captain of the troop, Caradoc of Cerrmor. Men, you kneel before
Maryn, marked prince of Pyrdon.”
At the casual mention of his name by one he didn’t know,
Caradoc glared at Nevyn, who ignored him with a bland smile.
“Silver daggers, are you?” Maryn said with,
an engaging, boyish smile. “Pyrdon may be at the ends of the
earth, but I’ve heard of your troop. How many of you are
there?”
“Ninety, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “And we
have our own smith, chirurgeon, and bard.”
Maryn glanced at Nevyn for advice.
“It would pay to look them over, Your Highness, but
you’ll have to consult with your father the king first, of
course.”
“Well and good, then. Men, you may rise and stand in
our presence.” The prince glanced Nevyn’s way
again. “I don’t suppose I could go look them over
right now.”
“Not with the king expecting you back. Have the
captain bring them to you on the morrow.”
“Oh, very well. Captain. Caradoc, assemble your troop
before the gates of the royal palace on the morrow. Send me word through the
guards on the causeway.”
“Well and good, Your Highness. We’ll arrive around
noon.”
With a laugh of excitement, the young prince strode back to his
men. Nevyn winked at Maddyn, then rejoined his lord. As the royal
escort rode on, Caradoc stared openmouthed until they were out of
sight. He retrieved his ale from the street and led the way back to
the bench, where he sat down with an exaggerated heavy
sigh.
“Very well, Maddo. Who is that old man?”
“The herbman who saved my life up in Cantrae. Remember me
telling you about Brin Toraedic? And he’s the same one who
tipped Caudyr off to leave Dun Deverry.”
“An herbman for a prince’s tutor?
Horseshit.”
“Oh, by the gods, can’t you see what’s been
stuck under your face? The old man’s dweomer.”
Caradoc choked on his ale.
“Well, he’s the one who sent you the dream,”
Maddyn said after he’d recovered. “He admitted as much
to me.”
“Ah well, if we get this hire, it cursed well won’t
be dull, will it now? Dweomermen, impressive young princes—
it all sounds like one of your songs.”
“Oh, it’s stranger than any song I know. If
Nevyn’s come to live in Pyrdon, I’ll wager he’s
got grave things afoot, and the gods only know what they
are.”
“Now here,” Casyl snapped. “When I spoke of
getting you a personal guard, I was thinking of twenty men, not
ninety.”
“But, Father, there’s bound to be fighting next
summer. It would be splendid if I could lead close to a hundred
men.”
“Lead? Listen, you young cub, I’ve told you a
thousand times that you’re staying in the rear for your first
campaign.”
“Well, if you’re so worried, then the more men I
have, the safer I’ll be.”
Casyl growled under his breath, but it was a fond
exasperation.
“My liege the king?” Nevyn said. “If I may
interject a word?”
“By all means.”
“Although I doubt the prince’s motives, he does speak the
truth. The larger the guard, the better. The time might well come
soon when he’ll need many men around him.”
Casiyl turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes. They
were sitting in the shabby council chamber at a round table, set with
only a pair of wobbly bronze candelabra.
“Father.” Maryn leaned across the table. “You
know that Nevyn’s omens always come true.”
“It’s not a matter of his prediction, but of the
coin. How are we going to pay and shelter ninety
mercenaries?”
“I’ve got the taxes from that bit of land in my own
name. They’ll help provision the troop. I get two whole cows
this fall, just for starters.”
“And how long will it take hungry men to dispatch that
much beef?”
“But, Father! You’ve heard all those tales about the
silver daggers. If even half of them are true, why, they fight
like demons, from hell!”
Casyl leaned back in his chair and idly rubbed his chin, with
the back of his hand while he thought it over. Nevyn waited
silently, knowing that Maryn was bound to get his own way in the
end.
“Well,” Casyl said at last. “I
haven’t even gotten a look at them yet. I’ll review
them when they arrive tomorrow, and then we’ll see.”
“My thanks, Father. You know that the prince will always
put himself under the king’s orders.”
“Out, you little hypocrite! Go talk to your mother. She
told me earlier that she wanted a word with you.”
Maryn made him a formal bow, nodded to Nevyn, then ran
out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him, and breaking into
a loud whistle as he trotted down the hall.
“Ah ye gods, next summer my son rides to war! Tonight,
Nevyn, I feel as old as you.”
“No doubt, Your Highness, but I still hear a lad, not a
man, when he talks of the glories of war.”
“Of course, but he’ll learn. I only pray that our
next campaign is an easy one. Here, have you had some kind of
omen?”
“Of sorts. Your Highness, the king in Cerrmor is fated
to die soon, I think before the winter’s out.”
Casyl went very still, his hands tight on the arms of the
chair.
“His only son is dead.” Nevyn went on.
“His three daughters are too young to have sons yet. Tell
me, Your Highness, have you ever fancied yourself as king
in Deverry? When Glyn dies, you’re the
heir.”
“Ah, by the hells, it can’t be! He’s just a
young man.”
“Fevers and suchlike come to the young as well as the old.
Your Highness had best think carefully, because with a Cantrae wife
he won’t be terribly popular with his new vassals.”
Casyl sat so still, his eyes so heavy-lidded, that he seemed
asleep. Nevyn waited for a few minutes to let him think before he
went on.
“And about the silver daggers, Your Highness?
You’ll need men like that if you’re going to have a
chance to claim the Cerrmor throne.”
“Chance? Don’t be a dolt, man! Even if I had an army
twice the size of the one I do, my chance is about as good as a
flea’s in a soap bath, and I think me you know it.”
“If the Cerrmor lords accept you, then you have a very
good chance, my liege.”
Casyl rose and paced to the open window, where the cold night
air came in with a heavy scent of damp.
“If I strip my kingdom of men to march on Cerrmor, Eldidd
will march north. It’s a question of trading one kingdom for
another, isn’t it? Throwing away the land I have in a bid to
gain land I’ve never seen. There are men in Cerrmor who have
claims as good as mine. Somewhere back in my family line is a
bastard son, and the other factions could easily use that against
me. And while we all squabble over Cerrmor, the Cantrae line will
be taking over the rest of the kingdom. Does it sound like a fair
bargain to you?”
“It doesn’t, my liege, especially since I know a man
who has a better claim to the throne of all Deverry than any other
man alive.”
“Indeed?” Casyl turned, leaning back casually on the
window frame, smiling a little in academic interest. “And who
might that be?”
“Does His Highness truly have no idea?”
Casyl froze,
only his mouth working in a twist of pain.
“I think me he
does.” Nevyn was inexorable. “Your son, my liege.
While a Cantrae wife would be held against you, a Cantrae mother
strengthens Maryn’s position a hundredfold. He has ties to
every royal line, even Eldidd, strong ties.”
“So he does,” Casyl’s voice was a whisper. “Oh
ye gods! I never gave a moment’s thought to it before, truly. I
never dreamt the Cerrmor line would fail like this. Do you think that
Maryn has a chance at acceptance, or will he have to fight for his
throne?”
“I think me Cerrmor will welcome him. Will they want a
Cantrae king on the throne instead?”
“Of course not.” Casyl began pacing back and forth.
“It’s going to be a hard and dangerous road to the
throne, but how can I deny my son’s claim to his
Wyrd?”
“There’s more at stake than Maryn’s Wyrd. This
is a matter of grave import for the entire kingdom. Truly, I know
that I’ve talked of strange omens and suchlike without a
shred of proof, but you’ll know that I’ve spoken the
truth when news comes of Glyn’s death. In the meantime, it
might be politic to hire Maryn as large a guard as
possible.”
“Politic indeed if he’s the heir to two thrones.
Done, then. I’ll have a look at those silver daggers on the
morrow.”
On the morrow morning, Maryn was restless beyond a simple
excitement at the chance to acquire a personal guard. When Nevyn
suggested that they have a talk, the prince insisted on leaving the
dun and going down to the narrow sandy beach of the island where
they could be completely private. Although it was unseasonably warm
still, thin cirrus clouds mackereled the sky, and the leaves on the
birches were a sickly yellow.
“Very well, Your Highness,” Nevyn said once they
were settled on an outcrop of rock. “What grave matter is
troubling you?”
“Maybe it’s naught. Maybe I’m going daft or
suchlike.”
“Indeed? Out with it.”
“Well, when I met those silver daggers yesterday, I got
the strangest feeling. This is the beginning, the feeling said. You
hear about men’s Wyrds talking to them, but I never truly
understood before. I do now, because I heard my Wyrd say that to
me. Or am I daft?”
“Not daft at all, truly. Your Wyrd is gathering, sure
enough.”
Slack-mouthed, the prince stared out over the lake, rippling as
the wind rose in a gust that shook the birches.
“Are you afraid, Your Highness?”
“Not for myself. I just thought of somewhat. Nevyn, if
I’m meant to be king, then men are going to die for me.
There’ll have to be a war before I can claim the
throne.”
“That’s true.”
He was silent for a long while more, looking so young, so
absurdly smooth-faced and wide-eyed, that it seemed impossible that
here sat the true king of all Deverry. For all that Maryn had taken
his training well, at fourteen he was far from ready for the
work ahead, but then, Nevyn doubted if any man, no matter how old and
wise, would ever be truly ready.
“I don’t want all those deaths on my head.” He
spoke abruptly, with the ring of command in his voice.
“Your Highness has no choice. If you refuse to take your
Wyrd upon you, then more men will die fighting to put some false
king on your throne.”
Tears welled in his eyes; he brushed them irritably away on his
sleeve before he answered.
“Then I’ll follow my Wyrd.” He rose, and
suddenly he looked older. “Let no man bar me from my rightful
place.”
Just at noon the message came that the silver daggers
had arrived. Nevyn rode out with Maryn and the king to conduct
something of a test of his plans. Out in the meadow at the end of
the causeway, the men sat on horseback in orderly ranks with
Caradoc, Maddyn, and a young man that Nevyn didn’t recognize
front and center. Behind them was a disorderly mob of pack horses,
wagons, women, and even a few children.
“That’s a surprise,” Maryn remarked. “I
didn’t think men like this would have wives.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them wives,” Casyl
said. “There’s still a few things you have to learn,
lad.”
Nevyn and Maryn rode behind the king as he trotted over to
Caradoc. Nevyn was not impressed with the troop at first sight.
Although they were reasonably clean and their weapons were in good
repair, they were a hard-bitten, scruffy lot, slouching in their
saddles, watching the royalty with barely concealed insolence. At
every man’s belt, the silver hilt of the dagger gleamed like
a warning. Caradoc, however, bowed low from the saddle at the
king’s approach.
“Greetings, Your Highness. I’ve brought my men as
the young Prince ordered. I most humbly hope Your Highness will
find them acceptable.”
“We shall see, but if I should offer you shelter, then
you’ll be riding at the prince’s orders, not
mine.”
Caradoc glanced at Maryn with a slight, skeptical smile, as if
he were reckoning up the lad’s age. In his mind Nevyn called
upon the High Lords of Air and Fire, who promptly answered the prearged signal and came to cluster around the lad. Their
force enveloped him, giving him a faint glow, an aura of power. A light
wind sprang up to ruffle his hair and swell his plaid, and it
seemed that the very sunlight was brighter where it fell
upon him. Caradoc started to speak, then bowed again, dipping as
low as he could.
“I think me it would be a great honor to ride for you, my
prince. Would you care to review my men?”
“I would, but let me warn you, Captain. If you take this
hire you’ll be riding with me on a long road indeed. Of
course, only the hard roads lead to true glory.”
Caradoc bowed again, visibly shaken to hear the lad talk like
the hero of a bard’s tale. The silver daggers came to a
stiff-backed attention in a sudden respect, and the young
lieutenant beside Maddyn caught his breath sharply. When Nevyn
glanced his way, he nearly swore aloud: Gerraent, with the falcon
mark on shin and sword hilt just as it always seemed to be.
“This is Owaen, good councillor.” Caradoc noticed
his interest. “Second-in-command in battle. Maddyn’s
our bard, and also second-in-command in peaceful doings.”
“You seem to keep things well in hand, Captain,”
Maryn said.
“I do my best, my prince.”
Owaen was looking Nevyn over with more curiosity than he showed
for either the prince or the king. In those hard blue eyes Nevyn
saw the barest trace of recognition, a spark of their old, mutual
hatred, that lasted only briefly before it was replaced by
bewilderment. Doubtless Owaen was wondering how he could feel so
strongly about an unarmed old man that he’d only just met.
Nevyn gave him a small smile and looked away again. He was seething
with a personal excitement; here were Gerraent and Blaen, now
called Owaen and Maddyn, and there was Caradoc, who in a former
life had been king himself in Cerrmor under the name of Glyn the
First. Glyn had been such a good king that Nevyn was shocked to
find him as an outcast man and a silver dagger until he reminded
himself that just such a man was essential now to the well-being of
the kingdom. A mercenary like Caradoc fought for only one thing:
victory. Not for him the niceties and snares of honor; he would
stoop to any ruse or low trick if he had to in order to win. The
members of his charmed circle of Wyrd were all gathering for the
work, and that meant that somewhere soon Brangwen’s soul
would join them. Soon he would have another chance to untangle his
snarl of Wyrd.
All at once he remembered the camp followers, hovering at a
respectful distance behind their men. He felt sick, wondering i
she were among them. Could she have fallen so low in this life? For a moment, he was honestly afraid to look; then he steeled
himself. When Casyl and Caradoc began discussing the terms of the
hire, Nevyn left the prince in the care of the lords of the
elements and jogged his horse along the ranks, as if the
prince’s councillor were having one last good look at the men
his liege wished to take into his guard. Maddyn broke ranks to join
him.
“Let’s leave the horse trading to Carro and your
king. By the hells, Nevyn, it gladdens my heart to think
we’ll be spending the winter in the same dun. I know Caudyr
will want to talk with you, too.”
“Caudyr?” It
took him a moment to remember the young chirurgeon of Dun
Deverry. “Well, now, is that young cub the chirurgeon Caradoc
spoke of? I take it he followed my advice, all those years
ago.”
“So he did, and I’ll wager it saved his
life when Slwmar died, too.”
“Good. It seems he took my advice about abortions as well,
judging from the pack of children I see over there. How many lasses
have you picked up along the road, Maddo? I seem to remember that
you’ve always had luck with women.”
“Oh, these are hardly all mine. We share what we can get
when we can, you see.”
Nevyn did see, entirely too well. The thought of Brangwen living
passed from man to man was like a bitter taste of poison in his
mouth. Most of the women were riding astride, their skirts hitched
up around them, some with a small child behind them, but all of
them, mothers or not, were as hard-eyed and suspicious as their
men. At the very rear, a pale blond woman was sitting in a mule
cart, cushioned by blankets as she nursed a baby.
“That’s Clwna,” Maddyn said, gesturing at her.
“When we’re back at the dun, I’d be ever so
grateful if you or some other herbman would have a look at her. She
hasn’t been well since the babe was born, and Caudyr
can’t seem to mend her. She’s as much my woman as any
of them are.”
“Oh, let’s talk to her right now.”
Nevyn’s heart sank with dread. “The king and your captain will
doubtless be a while yet.”
When they rode over, Clwna glanced up indifferently. There were
dark circles like bruises under her blue eyes, and her skin far too
pale. Nevyn almost gasped in relief when he realized she was not
his Brangwen at all.
“This is Nevyn, the best herbman in the
kingdom,” Maddyn said with forced cheer. “He’ll have you right as rain
straightaway, my sweet.”
Clwna merely smiled as if she doubted it.
“Well, it’s a simple enough diagnosis, truly,”
Nevyn said. “A good midwife would have spotted it in a
minute, but the only women Caudyr’s ever tended were rich and
well fed. Here, lass, your blood is weak because you just birthed a
babe, and I’ll wager you haven’t been eating right. Get
an apple, put an iron nail in it, and leave it there overnight.
Then take it out and eat the apple. You’ll see the red streak
of the sanguine humor, which is what you need. Do that every night
for a fortnight, and then we’ll see.”
“My thanks,” Clwna was stammering in surprise.
“It’s good of a courtly man like you to give advice to
a silver dagger’s wench.”
“Oh, I’m not as courtly as I seem. Here, your babe
is a pretty little thing. Who’s the father?”
“And how would I know, my lord?” She shrugged in
sincere indifference. “Maddyn’s or Aethan’s, most
like, but she could be the captain’s, too.”
In return for their winter’s keep and a silver piece a man
if they should see any fighting, Caradoc pledged his loyalty to
Prince Maryn through the spring, with terms to be renegotiated at
Beltane. Getting so large a troop quartered in the cramped island
dun was something of a problem. The chamberlain and the captain of
Casyl’s warband conferred for an hour, then sent servants
running all over the ward until at last the mercenaries had a
barracks of their own, a stable for their horses, and a shed
for their wagons and extra gear. The chamberlain was an old man
with an amazing mind for details and a scrupulous sense of
propriety. He was quite outraged, he told Nevyn, to find that the
silver daggers found nothing wrong with keeping the women right in
the same barracks with them.
“Well, why not?” Nevyn, said.
“It’ll keep the lasses safe from the
king’s riders. Or do you want fights all winter
long?”
“But what of those innocent
children?”
“Let us profoundly hope that
they’re sound sleepers.”
After the evening meal Nevyn
went out to visit Maddyn in the barracks. When he came into the
long room, dimly lit by firelight, he had to pause for a moment
and catch his breath at the combined reek of horse, man sweat,
and smoke. Most of the men were playing dice; the women
huddled at the far end to gossip among themselves while the babies
slept nearby. At the hearth, Maddyn, Caradoc, and Caudyr sat on the floor and talked, while Owaen lay
stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms.
Although he seemed asleep, he looked up briefly when Maddyn
introduced him to Nevyn, then went back to watching the fire.
“Come sit down,” Caudyr said, sliding over a bit to
make room. “It gladdens my heart to see you again. I thought that a
sorcerer like you would have more important work at hand than
selling herbs.”
“Oh, the herbs are important in their own way, too, lad.
Now tell me, how did you end up with that silver dagger in your
belt?”
For a long while Caudyr, Maddyn, and Nevyn talked of old times,
while Caradoc listened with close attention and Owaen fell asleep.
At length the talk turned inevitably to Nevyn’s strange
employment in the king’s palace. Nevyn put them off with
vague questions until Caradoc joined in.
“Here, good sorcerer, what’s the dweomer doing
hiring a piss-poor bunch of men like us? I think me we’ve got
a right to know, since you’re asking us to die for the prince
as like as not.”
“Now here, Captain, I’m not asking a thing of you.
The prince is the one who gives you meat and mead.”
“Horseshit. The prince does what you tell him, at least
when somewhat important’s at stake.” He exchanged a
glance with Maddyn. “I was impressed with the lad, very
impressed, you might say.”
“Indeed?”
When Caradoc hesitated, Maddyn leaned forward.
“You’ve found the true king, haven’t you?
Admit it, Nevyn. That lad has to be the true king, or no one on
earth ever will be.”
Although he wanted to whoop and dance in triumph, Nevyn
restrained himself to a small, cryptic smile.
“Tell me, Captain,” he said casually. “How
would you feel about leading your men all the way to Dun Deverry
someday?”
Caradoc pulled his silver dagger and held it point up to catch
the wink and glint of firelight
“This is the only honor any of us have left, and I’ll swear
you an oath on it. Either I see the king on his throne, or I die
over the Prince’s body.”
“And you’re willing to die for a man you saw for
the first time today?”
“Why not? Better than dying for some little pusboil of an
arrogant minor lord.” With a laugh he sheathed the dagger.
“And when does the war begin?”
“Soon, Captain. Very soon.”
Smiling to himself, Caradoc nodded. Nevyn felt like weeping. He
could see in the captain’s berserker eyes the bloody price
they would all pay for victory.
Since everyone in Eldidd knew about the silver daggers, the news
that they’d left for Pyrdon spread fast. It was just his
luck, Branoic decided, that they’d move on just when he
needed to find them. Even though a single rider could travel faster
than a troop with a baggage train, they had a head start, of some
ten nights, and he never caught them on the road. After one last
cold night of sleeping outside because he couldn’t afford an
inn, he rode into Drwloc around noon and found a cheap tavern, where he spent his
last two coppers on a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. He ate
standing up with his back to the wall while he kept an eye on the
other patrons, who were a scruffy lot to his way of
thinking. As soon as the trade would allow, the serving lass
minced over to him with a suggestive little smile. Unwashed and
skinny, she appealed to him about as much as the flea-bitten
hounds by the hearth, but he decided that he might as well get
some information out of her.
“How far is it to King Casyl’s dun,
lass?”
“About two miles on the west-running road. You must be
from a long way away if you don’t know
that.”
“I am, truly. Now tell me, has a troop of mercenaries
been through here? They hail from Eldidd, the lads I want,
and they all carry daggers with silver pommels.”
“Oh, they were, sure enough, and a nasty lot they
looked. I don’t know why the king took them on.”
“Because they’re some of the best fighting men in
the three kingdoms, no doubt.”
He strode away before she could flirt with him further. Out in
the tavern yard his chestnut gelding stood waiting, laden with
everything he owned in the world: a bedroll, a pair of
mostly empty saddlebags, and a shield nicked and battered,
under its coat of dirty whitewash. He hoped that Caradoc
wouldn’t hold his lack of mail against him, but he had a
good sword at least, and he knew how to use it.
When Branoic rode up to the causeway leading to Casyl’s dun, the
guards refused to let him pass, and no more would they take in
message for a dirty and dangerous-looking stranger. Since had he no
money for a bribe, Branoic tried first courtesy, then argument, but
neither worked. The guards only laughed and told him that if he
wanted to see Caradoc, he’d have to camp there until the captain rode out. By then Branoic was so furious that he was tempted
to draw his sword and force the issue, but common sense prevailed.
He hadn’t ridden all the way from Eldidd only to get himself
hanged by some petty king.
“Well and good, then,” he said. “I’ll sit at
your gates and starve until you’re shamed enough to let me
in.”
As he strode away, leading his horse, he glanced back to see the
guards looking apprehensive, as if they believed him capable of it.
In truth, since he had neither coin nor food, he had little choice
in the matter. In the meadow across the road he slacked the
chestnut’s bit and let it graze, then sat down where he could
glare at the guards and be easily seen. As the morning crept by,
they kept giving him nervous looks that might have been inspired by
guilt, but of course, they may have been merely afraid of his
temper. Although he was only twenty, Branoic was six foot four,
broad in the shoulders, with the long arms of a born swordsman and
a warrior’s stance. Down his left cheek was a thick, puckered
scar, a souvenir of the death duel that had gotten him exiled from
his father’s dun in Belglaedd. Better men than Casyl’s
guards had found him nerve-wracking before.
He’d been waiting by the road about two hours when he
heard the blare of silver horns. As the farther gates opened, the
guards by the road snapped to smart attention. Walking their horses
down the causeway rode the silver daggers, sitting with the easy,
arrogant slump in their saddles that he remembered. At their head
was a lad of about fourteen, with a red, gold, and white plaid
slung from his shoulder. When Branoic started forward, one of the
guards yelled at him.
“You! Get back! That’s the marked prince, Maryn, and
don’t you go bothering the captain when he’s riding
with him.”
Although it griped his soul, Branoic retreated without arguing,
The affairs of a prince were bound to take precedence over those of
a commoner. He was just about to sit back down when he heard
himself being hailed, but this time by the prince himself. He
hurried back over and clasped the lad’s stirrup as a sign
of humility.
“Any man who asks has access to me.” Maryn shot a
pointed glance at the guards. “A prince is the shepherd
of his people, not one of the wolves. Remember that from now on.” He turned
back to Branoic with a distant but gracious smile. “Now. What
matter do you have to lay before me?”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic was
practically stammering in amazement. “But truly, all I wanted
was a word with Caradoc.”
“Well, that’s an easily granted boon. Get your horse
and ride with us a ways.”
Branoic ran to follow his order. When he fell into line beside
Caradoc, the captain gave him an oddly sly smile.
“Branoic of Belglaedd, is it? What are you doing on the
long road north?”
“Looking for you. Do you remember when last we met? You
told me you’d take me on if I wanted to ride with you. Was
that just a jest?”
“It was a jest only because I didn’t think
you’d want to leave your noble father’s court,
not because I wouldn’t be glad to have you in my
troop.”
“Thanks be to the gods, then. A bastard son’s got a
shorter welcome than a silver dagger unless he minds every
courtesy. I’ve been exiled. It was over an honor
duel.”
Caradoc’s eyebrows shot up.
“I heard about that. You killed the youngest son of the
gwerbret of Elrydd, wasn’t it? But why would your father
turn you out over that? I heard it was a fair fight.”
“It was, and judged so by a priest of Bel,
too.” For a moment Branoic had trouble speaking; he
felt as if he could physically choke on the injustice. “But
it made my father a powerful enemy, and so he kicked me out to
appease the misbegotten gwerbret. The whole way north, I was
afraid for my life, thinking that Elrydd would have me murdered on
the road. But either I’ve thought ill of him unjustly, or
else I gave his men the slip.”
“I’d say the latter, from what I remember of His
Grace. Well and good, lad, you’re on, but you have to earn
this dagger. If we see fighting, you’ll get a full share of
the pay, mind, but you’ll have to prove yourself before I
have Otho the smith make you a blade. Agreed?”
“Agreed. And my thanks—there’s not a
soul in the world to take me in but you.”
For a few minutes they rode in silence. Branoic studied
the young prince riding some few yards ahead and wondered what
it was that made him seem so unusual. He was a handsome boy, but there
were plenty of good-looking men in the kingdom, and none of them had
his aura of glamour and power. There were other princes,
too, who had his straight-backed self-confidence and gracious ways,
but none that seemed to have ridden straight out of an old epic
like Maryn. At times, it seemed as if the very air around him
crackled and snapped with some unseen force.
“And what do you
think of our lord?” Caradoc said quietly.
“Well, he
makes me remember some odd gossip I heard down in Eldidd.”
“Gossip?”
“Well, omens and suchlike.”
“Omens of what?”
In a fit of embarrassment Branoic merely shrugged.
“Out with it, lad.”
“Well, about the one true king of Deverry.”
Caradoc laughed under his breath.
“If you stick with this troop, lad, you’ll be leaving
Eldidd and Pyrdon far behind. Can you stomach that?”
“Easily. Oh, here—what are you telling me? Will we
be riding all the way to Dun Deverry some fine day?”
“We will, at that, but I can promise you a long bloody
road to the Holy City.” Caradoc turned in his saddle.
“Maddyn, get up here! We’ve got a new
recruit.”
Somehow or other, Branoic had missed meeting the bard in his
previous encounters with the silver daggers. About thirty-three, he
was a slender but hard-muscled man with a mop of curly blond hair,
streaked with gray at the temples, and world-weary blue eyes.
Branoic liked him from the moment he met him. He felt in some odd
way that they must have known each other before, even though he
couldn’t remember when or how. All that afternoon, Maddyn
introduced him around, explained the rules of the troops, found him
a stall for his horse and a bunk when they returned to the dun, and
generally went out of his way to make him feel at ease. At the evening meal
they sat together, and Branoic found it easy to let the bard do most of
the talking.
The other lieutenant in the troop, Owaen, was a different
matter. They had barely finished eating when he strode over, his
tankard in hand, and Branoic found himself hating him. There
was just something about the way that the arrogant son of a bitch stood,
he decided, all posturing with his head tossed back, his free hand
on the hilt of his silver dagger.
“You!” Owaen snapped. “I see by your blazon
that you used to ride for the Eagle clan of Belglaedd.”
“I did. What’s it to you?”
“Naught, except for one small thing.” Owaen paused
for an insolent sip of ale. “You’ve got the clan
device all over your gear. I want it taken off.”
“What!?”
“You heard me.” Owaen touched the yoke of his shirt,
which sported an embroidered falcon. “Those eagles look too
much like my device. I want them gone.”
“Oh, do you now?” Slowly and carefully Branoic swung
free of the bench and stood up to face him. Dimly he was aware that
the hall had fallen silent. “I was born into that clan, you
piss-proud little mongrel. I’ve got every right to wear that
device if I want, and want it I do.”
Like dweomer Caradoc
materialized in between them and laid a restraining hand on
Branoic’s sword arm.
“Listen, Owaen,” the captain said. “The
lad’s gear will get lost or broken soon enough, and the
eagles fly away of their own accord.”
“That’s not soon enough.”
“I won’t have fighting in our prince’s,
hall.”
Then let’s go out in the ward,” Branoic broke in,
“Let’s settle it, Owaen, with a fistfight
between the two of us, and the winner gets the
device.”
“For a new man, you’re an insolent little
bastard.” Then Owaen caught the grim look on
Caradoc’s face. “Oh, very well, then. You’re
on.”
Nearly everyone in the great hall trooped after them to watch
when they went out. While a couple of pages ran off for
torches, the combatants took off their sword belts and
handed them to Maddyn. Wagers went back and forth between the
onlookers. When the torches arrived, Branoic and Owaen faced
off and began circling, sizing each other up. Since Branoic
had won every fistfight he’d ever fought, he was
confident—too confident. He plunged straight in, swung, and
felt Owaen block his punch, at the same moment that a fist jammed
into his stomach. Gasping he dodged back, but Owaen was right there,
dancing in from the side, clipping him on the side of the jaw.
Although the blow stung more than hurt, Branoic went into a
berserker rage, swinging back, punching, feeling nothing but a
swelling dizziness as Owaen hlocked and danced and hit in
return.
“Enough!” Caradoc’s voice sliced through the
red haze surrounding him. “I said hold and stand, by the
Lord of Hell’s balls!”
Arms grabbed him and pulled
him back. With a gasp for breath Branoic tossed his head and saw blood
scatter from a cut over his left eye. Owaen was standing in front of
him, his nose running blood. He smiled as Branoic took a step back
and felt his knees buckle under him. When the men holding him
lowered him gently to the cobbles, all he could do was sit there,
gasping for breath, feeling his face and stomach throb with pain
and the blood run down his cheek.
“This had better end it,” Caradoc said. “Owaen gets
the little chickens since he’s so fond of them, but I
don’t want anyone mocking Branoic for this, either. Hear
me?”
There were mutters of agreement from the other silver daggers.
In a flood of good-natured laughter the crowd broke up, settling
wagers as they drifted back to the great hall. Branoic stayed
outside; he felt so humiliated that he was sure he could never look
another man in the face again. Maddyn caught his arm and helped him
stand.
“Now look, lad, I’ve never seen a man before who
could give Owaen a bloody nose.”
“You don’t need to lie to spare my
feelings.”
“I’m not. If you can keep Owaen from knocking you
out cold on the cobbles, then you’ve won a victory of
sorts.”
It was so sincerely said that Branoic felt his shame lift.
Stumbling and staggering, he had to lean on Maddyn as they headed
for the barracks. About halfway there they were stopped by the old
man whom Maddyn had pointed out earlier as the prince’s
councillor. Nevyn held up the lantern he was carrying and peered
into Branoic’s bleeding face.
“I’ll tell Caudyr to get out to the barracks. This
lad needs a couple of stitches in that cut over his eye. Make sure
you get him to lie down, Maddo.”
“Oh, I’ll wager he won’t be wanting to dance the
night away.”
Although Branoic tried to smile at the jest, his mouth hurt too
badly. Suddenly Nevyn looked straight into his eyes, and the gaze
caught him like a spear, impaling deep into his soul. In his muddled state
he felt as if he’d been trying to find this man all his life
for some reason that he should remember, that he absolutely had to
remember. Then the insight vanished in a flood of nausea.
“He’s going to heave,” Nevyn said calmly.
“That’s all right, lad. Get it all out.”
Branoic dropped to his knees and vomited, his stomach burning
from Owaen’s fist. Never in his life had he felt so
humiliated, that Nevyn would see him like this, but when he was
finally done and looked up to apologize, the old man was gone.
Nevyn returned to his chamber, lit the ready-laid fire with a
wave of his hand, and sat down in a comfortable chair to think
about this blond, young Eldidd man that Caradoc had brought in from
the road like a stray dog. Nevyn had recognized him the moment
he’d seen him, or rather, he knew perfectly well that he
should recognize the soul looking out through those cornflower-blue
eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite remember who
he’d been in former lives. While Maddyn felt well disposed to
the lad, Owaen had hated him on sight, a mutual feeling, it
seemed. Logically, then, in his last life Branoic might have been
a loyal member of Gweniver’s warband, still bearing his old
grudge against the man who had tried to rape a holy priestess.
Since Nevyn had never paid any particular attention to the warband,
it was also logical that he wouldn’t remember all its
members. On the other hand, he’d felt such a strong dweomer
touch at the sight of the lad that surely he had to be someone more
important than one of Gwyn and Ricyn’s riders.
“Maybe her brother-in-law?” he said aloud.
“What was his name, anyway? Ye gods, I can’t
remember that either!! I must be getting old.”
Over the next few days, his mind at odd moments worried over
the problem of Branoic’s identity like a terrier in front of
a rat cage—it growled and snapped but couldn’t get the
rat out. He did decide, however, that the lad’s arrival was
an omen of sorts, a true one rather than another faked and
theatrical glamour such as those that he and the priests were
spreading about the coming of the king. One or two at a time, men
he had trusted in lives past were coming to help him bring peace to
the kingdom.
Soon enough, he had news of an ominous kind to occupy his
attention. Some weeks past, he had sent to the temple of Bel at
Hendyr for copies of two important works on Deverry common law,
and when the messenger returned he also brought a letter from Dannyr, the high priest down in Cerrmor, a letter that was twice
sealed and written in the ancient tongue of the Homeland few could read.
“King Glyn has fallen ill,” Dannyr wrote. “Everyone
whispers of poison, although such seems doubtful to me. The king’s
chirurgeons have diagnosed a congestion of the liver, and
truly, it is no secret that the king has indulged himself with mead in
unseemly quantities ever since he was old enough to drink. Yet I thought it wise to
inform you of these rumors nonetheless, for we cannot have it said that
the true king poisoned one of his rivals. Any counsel you might send
would be appreciated, but for the love of every god, write only in
the ancient tongue.”
When he finished, Nevyn swore aloud with vile oaths in both the
ancient and the modern tongues. Dannyr was exactly right; no one
would believe Maryn the true king if they thought he’d used
poison to gain a throne. All the blame—if, indeed, blame
there were—had to be cast onto the other claimant up in Dun
Deverry, or rather, onto the various minions of the Boar clan that
surrounded the eighteen-year-old king. At that point Nevyn
remembered Caudyr, and he thanked the Lords of Light with all his
soul for giving him the weapons he needed to win this battle. The
chirurgeon’s evidence about the circumstances surrounding
the death of the last king would no doubt throw any suspicion
firmly where it belonged. Smiling grimly to himself, Nevyn went to
his writing desk and drafted a letter to Dannyr straightaway.
Yet when he was done, and the letter safely sealed against the
off chance that there was someone around who could read it, he sat
at his desk for a long time and considered this matter of poison.
Even though it seemed that Glyn was dying of self-induced natural
causes, there was no doubt that poison had become available in the
torn kingdoms. Who was brewing it? What if there were followers of
the dark dweomer around, waiting their chance to plunge the country
deeper into chaos? And did they know about Maryn? He went cold all
over, cursing himself for a fool, for a proud, stupid dolt to think
he could keep such a crucial secret from those who made it their
business to ferret out secrets. He would have to see if his
suspicions were correct, and if they were, mere scrying through a
fire would be useless.
He barred the door to his chamber, then lay down on his bed, lying
on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. First he
calmed his breathing, then summoned the body of light, seeing
the glowing man shape first in his mind, then pouring
his will into it until it seemed to stand beside him in the
chamber. He transferred his consciousness over, heard a rushy
click, and floated in the air looking down at his inert body.
Slipping out a window, he flew up high until he could look down on
the dun, a black, dead lump in the throbbing silver mist of
elemental force arising from the lake Although the mist made it
difficult for him to hold his place—he was forced to fight
against some truly dangerous currents—still he was glad to
see it, because its presence would make scrying into the dun
difficult indeed. The lake had turned the dun into a safe fortress
on more planes than one.
Navigating carefully, Nevyn got clear of the lake’s aura
and flew over the sleeping countryside, a dull red-brown now that
autumn was sapping the energies of the plant life. In their true
forms, beautiful, ever-changing crystalline structures of colored
light, the Wildfolk swarmed around and accompanied him on his
flight. About five miles from the dun he had his first warning of
evil when the spirits paused, shuddering, then disappeared in
silver flashes and long winking-outs of light. He stopped and
waited, hovering above a patch of woodland to take imperfect
shelter in its ebbing glow. None of the Wildfolk returned. Whatever
had frightened them had done so badly. He flew up higher until the
blue light was as thick as fog, ever swirling and drifting, hiding
the landscape below. When he visualized light flowing from his
fingertips, light appeared, the volatile mind-stuff responding
instantly to the form he imposed upon it. With glowing lines of
light he drew an enormous sigil of protection in front of him.
Since it would be visible for a great distance, it was the perfect
bait to draw the attention of any other travelers on the etheric
that night.
For a long while he waited there like a hunter near a
snare until at last he saw another human-shaped body of light far off
from him in the blue mists. He drew another sigil, this one of
greeting and friendship, and was rewarded by seeing his fellow
traveler first go stock-still, then turn and flee at top speed.
Instinctively Nevyn started after, only to stop himself before
he’d gone far. He had no idea of how strong the enemy was
or even if he were alone. He was certain, however, that an enemy it
was. Any servant of the Light would have answered that sigil with
a similar one and then come to meet him.
Rather than risk some foolhardy battle, Nevyn returned to
the dun and his physical body. Stretching, he sat up on the bed and
looked into the fire on the hearth.
“Bad news. I think me
that someone’s spying on us.”
In alarm the spirits of
fire flared up, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“If you see anything the least bit unusual, tell
me.”
Within the flames the gleaming salamanders nodded their
agreement. Nevyn got up, took his heavy cloak, and left the
chamber. He went up the spiral staircase to the last landing
of the broch, where a trapdoor gave access to the roof. After a
quick glance round to make sure that no servants were there to see
this eccentric behavior on the part of the learned councillor, he
pried it up and climbed out onto the roof. He had a strange sort of
guard to post.
First he raised his arms high and called upon the power of the
Holy Light that stands behind all the gods. Its visible symbol came
to him in a glowing spear that pierced him from head to foot. For a
moment he stood motionless, paying it homage, then stretched his
arms out shoulder high, bringing the light with them to form a
shaft across his chest. As he stood within the cross, the light
swelled, strengthening him, then slowly faded of its own will. When
it was gone, he lowered his arms, then visualized a sword of
glowing light in his right hand. Once the image lived apart from
his will, he circled the roof, walking deosil, and used the sword
to draw a huge ring of golden light in the sky. As the ring settled
to earth, it sheeted out, forming a burning wall around the entire
dun. Three times around he went, until the wall lived on the
etheric of its own will.
At each ordinal point, he put a seal in the shape of a
five-pointed star made of blue fire. Once the four directions were
sealed, he spread the light until it was not a ring but a
hemisphere over the dun like a canopy. He made two last seals at
zenith and nadir, then withdrew the force from the astral sword
until it vanished. To signify the end of the working, he stamped
three times on the roof. The dome, however, remained
visible—that is, visible to someone with dweomer sight.
Although he would have to renew the seals five times a day, whenever
the astral tides changed, everyone within the dome would be safe
from evil, prying eyes.
Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, for the air nipped with
the promise of winter, he went to the wall and idly looked down into
the ward. Someone was walking there, and the way he moved was suspicious: taking a few steps, pausing to look
carefully round, then walking slowly on again. With his mind full
of thoughts of spies, Nevyn left the roof and rushed down the
inside staircase so fast that he nearly ended his physical
existence there and then. When he ran out into the ward, the
mysterious figure was no longer in sight. Muttering under his
breath, he summoned Wildfolk, among them a large mottled gnome who
had indeed seen the prowler. The gnome led him straight around the
main broch and toward the stables with absolutely no sign of fear,
which made Nevyn think he’d been overly dramatic to assume
that the dark dweomer had a spy right in the dun. Sure enough, when
he saw his quarry, he realized it was Branoic. Even in the dark
the lad’s sheer size and the straight-backed way he stood
were recognizable.
“Good eve, lad. Taking the air?”
“In a way, Councillor. I . . . uh well . . . I thought I
saw a fire.”
“Ye gods! Where?”
“Well, I was wrong about it, you see.” The lad sounded
profoundly embarrassed. I’m cursed glad now that I didn’t go
waking everyone up. I must have just been having a bad
dream.”
“Indeed? Tell me about it.”
“Well, since I’m the new man I got the bunk right
by the drafty window in our barracks. I dreamt I was awake and
looking out, and the dun walls were blazing with fire. So I
started to shout the alarm, but then I remembered that this dun
has stone walls, not a wooden palisade or suchlike. Right then I
must have woken up. But I lay there thinking about it, and it
nagged at me, so I grabbed my boots and came to look around. And
as soon as I did, I realized that it had to be a dream, but it
was a demon-sent vivid one, good sir.”
Nevyn, was taken completely aback. Obviously this young
lout of a warrior had a touch of the dweomer, and in his dream
state had seen Nevyn sealing the walls. Yet none of the men in
the charmed circle of his Wyrd had ever shown such talents. By
the hells, he thought, and irritably; just who is he?
“Tell
me, do you often have dreams like that?”
“Well, sometimes. I mean, I’ve never dreamt
about fires, before, but at times I have these dreams that seem so
real, I’d swear I was wide awake. Every now and then . . . ” He let his voice trail away.
“Every now and again you dream somewhat that turns out to
be true.”
With a gulp of breath, Branoic stepped sharply back.
“If my lordship will excuse me,” he stammered.
“I’d best be gone. It’s freezing out
here.”
He turned and frankly ran from the man who’d discovered
his secret. Young dolt! Nevyn thought, but with some affection. He
would have to talk some more with Branoic, no matter who he . . . and
then he saw it, what had been right under his nose but so unwelcome
that he’d kept it at bay for days.
“It can’t be! The Lords of Wyrd wouldn’t do
this to me! Would they?”
And yet he was remembering his Brangwen’s last
incarnation, when as Gweniver she’d dreamt of becoming the
best warrior in all Deverry. In this life, the Lords of Wyrd had
given her a body fit to fulfill that dream and then, or so he
hoped, finally put it to rest. While every soul is at root of one
polarity, which translates into the sex of the physical body, each
spends part of its lifetimes in bodies of the opposite sex in order
to have a full experience of the worlds of form. Nevyn had simply
been refusing to see that such a time had come for Brangwen, his
lovely, delicate, little Gwennie as he still thought of her. For
all he knew, she was working out part of her Wyrd that had nothing
to do with him personally. Whatever the reason, she’d
returned to him just as he’d known she would, but as Branoic
of Belglaedd.
As he paced back and forth in the dark, silent ward, Nevyn was
sick with weariness. He could see a dark message for himself in her
soul’s choice of a body. Deep in his heart he’d been
hoping that she would love him again, that they would have a warm,
human relationship, not merely the cold discipline of apprentice
and master, Apparently such a love was forbidden; he saw Branoic as
a warning, that he was to teach the dweomer to the inner soul and
forget about the outer form and its emotions. As much as it
ached his heart, he would accept the will of the Great Ones, just
as he had accepted so much else in the long years since
he’d sworn his rash vow.
After all, he had work on hand so important that his own
feelings, even his own Wyrd, seemed utterly insignificant. Thinking
about the battle ahead he could lay aside his personal griefs and feel
hope kindling in his heart. Danger lay ahead, and great griefs, but afterward the Light would prevail again in the
shattered kingdom.
On the morrow, a cool but sunny day, Maddyn went for a stroll
round the edge of the lake. He found a warm spot in the shelter of
a leafless willow tree and sat down to tune his harp. It had never
been an expensive instrument, and now it was battered and nicked
from its long years of riding behind his saddle, yet it had the
sweetest tone of any harp in the kingdom. Although many a bard in
many a great lord’s hall had offered him gold for it, he
would rather have parted with a leg, and although those same bards
had begged him to tell them his secret, he never had. After all,
would they have believed him if he’d told the truth, that the
Wildfolk had enchanted it for him? He often saw them touching it,
stroking it all over like a beloved cat, and every time they did,
it sang with a renewed, heart-aching sweetness.
As he tuned the strings that day by the lake, the Wildfolk came
to listen, appearing out of the air, rising out of the water, sylph
and sprite and gnome, clustering round the man that they considered
their own personal bard.
“I think it’s time I made up a song about Prince
Maryn. I take it you think he’s the true king, too.
I’ve seen you riding on his saddle and clustering round him
in the hall.”
They all nodded, turning as solemn as he’d ever seen them
until an undine could stand the quiet no longer. Dripping with
illusionary water, she reached over and pinched a green gnome as
hard as she could. He slapped her, and they tussled, kicking and
biting, until Maddyn yelled at them to stop. All sulks, they sat
down again as far apart from each other as they could.
“That’s better. Maybe I’ll sing about Dilly
Blind first. Shall I?”
With little nods and grins, they crowded close. Over the years
Maddyn had elaborated the simple folk songs about Diily Blind and
the Wildfolk into something of an epic, adding verse after verse
and clarifying the various stories. He had taught his mock-saga to
bards in dun where there were noble children until half of Eldidd
knew the song. At moments like these, when the wars seemed far
away, it amused him to think that a children’s song would
outlive him, passed down from bard to bard when he was long since
in his warrior’s grave.
When the song was done—and it was a good twenty minutes
long—most of the Wildfolk slipped away, but a few lingered,
his blue sprite among them, sitting close beside him as he watched
the ripples in the lake, the harp silent in his hands. He
remembered that other lake up in Cantrae, ten years or so ago now,
that had tormented his thirst as he rode dying. It had been about
the same time of day, he decided, because the sun had rippled it
with gold flecks just as it was doing to Drwloc in front of him. He
could see in his mind the dark reeds and the white heron, and he
could feel, too, the burning thirst and the pain, the sickening
buzz of the flies and his dark despair.
“It was worth it,” he remarked to the sprite.
“It brought me to Nevyn, after all.”
She nodded and patted him gently on the knee. Maddyn smiled,
thinking of what lay ahead. There was not the least doubt in his
mind that Nevyn had found the man born to be king of all Deverry.
He believed with his heart and soul that the young prince had been
handpicked by the gods to reunite the kingdom. Soon he and the
other silver daggers would ride behind Maryn when he set out to
claim his birthright. The only thing Maddyn wondered about was when
the time would come. As the sunlight faded from the lake, and the
night wind began to pick up, it seemed to him that his entire life
had led to this point, when he, Caradoc, Owaen, and all the rest of
the men in his troop were poised and ready, like arrows nocked in
the bows of a line of archers. Soon would come the order to draw
and loose. Soon, he told himself, truly, soon enough.
He jumped to his feet and called out, a peal of his berserk
laughter ringing across the lake toward the sunset. The strings of
his harp sounded softly in answer, trembling in the wind. Grinning
to himself, he slung the harp over his shoulder and started back to
the dun, glowing with warm firelight and torchlight in the
gathering night.